


From Ritual to Romance

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Series: Valmont Universe [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Bisexuality, Conspiracy, Domestic Violence, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Grief/Mourning, Het, Mental Health Issues, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, New Orleans, Not Really Character Death, Oral Sex, POV Multiple, Past Relationship(s), Scarves, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:10:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The witch is back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Ritual to Romance

**Author's Note:**

> "She walks in Beauty, like the night  
> Of cloudless climes and starry skies;  
> And all that's best of dark and bright  
> Meet in her aspect and her eyes:"  
> \--"She Walks In Beauty", George Gordon, Lord Byron

**Johnny:**

You thought I was dead, didn't you?

Come on. Admit it. I had that good long dying speech, you know, when that dumb shit Spender crushed me and I was all dizzy and incoherent? And then Alex, oh, God, did he ever lose his shit. Serves his bitch ass right. He really treated me like shit, you know, all that "why don't you seduce Mulder and Scully and we'll take over the world" garbage? Oh my God, I can't believe I ever fucking said I loved Alex. I can't believe I did love Alex. He is, without a doubt, the world's biggest asshole.

Well, bar Spender. Now that's why I can't believe you all thought I was dead! Let Spender waste me? Oh, that's just too much. What, are you all misogynists at heart? Let's compare Johnny Valmont and Jeffrey Spender, shall we? Valmont: bright, beautiful young woman. Spender: dorky, stupid little weasel. Valmont: seduced the FBI's most frigid agents. Spender: can't even get my friend Angie to blow him. Valmont: Modesty Blaise come to life. Spender: Gilligan come to life. Do I have to go on? Damn. And here I thought you all were smart.

I know what you're saying. Come on, Johnny, you were dead. Really and truly dead. Scully cried. You were a heroine on a mission. You were going to take over the world. Of course you were going down. You died like a hero with a deathbed conversion and all that bullshit. It was like Darth Vader at the end of Return of the Jedi. Now all of the sudden you're alive again? I've completely and totally used you and your sensibilities, and that's just wrong.

Duh. But what, did you think I was like, some nice person inside? I told you from the fucking beginning. Let me go find this... my very first words to you on the whole subject went like this:

"Alexei Krycek is the first person in my life who understood what I was. He's not like my grandfather, good ol' English Jake who got me into the organization but never put me anywhere useful. Alex knew I'd never be happy shuffling papers for a bunch of toothless old bastards and their Armani-clad kowtowing underlings. I fell in love with him because of that. Now I know better."

And yeah, Krycek understood that at heart, I was a fucking Girl Scout. Right? Of course, I was wrong about being out of love with Alex. People make mistakes. I made a big daddy of a mistake. Stupid romance.

I mean, okay, he was good-looking. Really good-looking. The sex was fantastic. But, Lord, I think I'm so smart and then I hook up with a guy like Krycek. Pride goeth before a fall, I guess. There's this aura about him. He's desperation and I think I like that. I know I like it. I mean, I fell all over Dana Scully, and she's nothing but uptight desperation in tailored suits.

Yeah, it was real fucking low what I did to Scully. I mean, really, though, was it so bad? Woman hadn't been laid in like, five years. She was all about pining for Mulder, and fuck, Mulder's all over me like a cheap suit. She was lonely and sweet Johnny made it all better. I'm a heroine, really. I liberated Scully from the oppressive world of compulsory heterosexuality. Better than that, I reminded her that Mulder is not the only sexually capable human being on earth.

Actually, hell, almost anyone would be more capable in bed with Scully than Mulder. Seeing as I fucked both of them senseless, I get to claim authority about this. When they finally get in bed, they're gonna be disappointed. Mulder doesn't really like kinky or painful or dirty. Guess who's a big masochist? But a lady doesn't kiss and tell and you might as well discover some things for yourself.

Okay, okay, so you want to know how I survived all the crushing and the boxes and seeing English Jake and Elvis. Well, hello and welcome to Get A Motherfucking Clue 101. A big clue ought to have been the morgue. What morgue lets a known drug felon like Jeff Spender and a bloodthirsty and dangerous assassin like Alex Krycek run around like they own the place? Hello? It was one of those places owned by (dum dum DAH) "The Bad Guys (TM)". You know, the guys who have cool little nanites that can rebuild a man from ground zero. The same guys who can clone the big green blooded guys. So maybe Smokey the Bandit doesn't actually like me-- in fact, I know for a fact he hates me-- but apparently they owe loyalty to my grandfather and the Project and all that bullshit. I guess. I don't have a clue for why else they'd bring me back.

So in the end I kind of got rebuilt like the six million-dollar man, with sterile labs, close-mouthed doctors, and lots of cutting-edge hush-hush technology. I think I got a free tummy tuck and liposuction in the deal. But all I really know right now is that it hurts. Oh my God. It hurts like a son of a bitch! Free tip for the crowd: **never**  get plastic surgery unless it's absolutely necessary. For me it was. You'd never guess now that I was dead when I arrived at the Bad Guys Hospital and Testing Facility.

Oh, yeah. Everyone else might be of interest to you, too. I guess you really care about what happened to them during that four-month period between me dying and me now. I'd let them tell you, but come on. They're gonna whine and angst and use long complicated poetic phrases. Please. So in brief:

Spender is not competent. He had all of my precious information at the tips of his fingers, but he can't even figure out how not to get arrested by the regular cops. Within two months of all his posturing, he was on Skid Row. You wouldn't believe how relieved and disgusted I was at the same time. Little doofus. And did you hear his little power trip? "My dad says..." oh, give me a break. His dad has more important things to do than shoot Alex Krycek just because Jeffy feels guilty. Though sometimes, I hear, you'd never know that--

Alex. Flat-out, Alex is not in the best of shape. He kind of went stark raving mad, which at first I found flattering, but not after he got really dirty and foul-smelling. Having your ex scream, "Johnny, babe! I'm so sorry! You gotta believe me, Johnny!" in an alley in clothes that he found in a Salvation Army dumpster is just really unromantic. Not to mention he's got lice. Ew. Hopefully Alex will get himself together. The world's just not as fun with Alex Krycek in the dumpster. He provides a nice contrast to all those hypocritical "good people" out there.

Especially Mulder. Mulder has been such a hypocrite. The truth is out there, I trust only you, Scully, you're the best things in my life-- oh please. She should kick his punk ass to the curb to the strains of Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots Were Made For Walking" and not look back.

The FBI gave them the X-Files back, because an accountant pointed out it was cheaper and a psychologist pointed out it was easier just to stick Mulder and Scully in the basement and let them chase exsanguinated cows. On regular duty, they run into real people, real cops, real media-- and they make the FBI look **bad**. So someone told Jeff's dad to go chase himself, and Mulder and Scully are all nice and cozy in the basement.

Scully brought her copy of that stupid "I Want To Believe" poster from her house and they put it up in the same old spot. Then they cried. Hell, they even did a champagne toast to the office. I'm not kidding. They're such dedicated, stalwart agents, so glad to be back on their crusade.

We call them losers.

Mulder, like I said, is a dick. He practically stalks Scully now, like he's afraid if he's not watching, she'll go find another chick to make out with. Then he doesn't even make a move on her. I wonder sometimes, if the man has a clue. Scratch that. I know he doesn't.

Then there's Scully. I was a major bitch to Scully, and I admit that. I also admit I'd probably do it over again, if I can decide whether or not if fucking her led to my crushing by Jeff-Boy. Actually, wait, I've decided my crushing was because Alex Krycek is a big jealous ass. So yeah, I'd do it again, except I'd blow Krycek's head off when I had that chance.

Scully is not okay. That makes me feel even worse. Mulder is a big jerk to her, everyone looks at her like she's an alien, and she has nightmares. Plus, she can't get out to get laid or anything to feel better because Mulder is a stalker boy who can't get it up for her. And her mom has been sort of distant because Maggie's all Catholic and she really didn't like that Dana slept with a girl and not a boy.

So now, Scully goes home from work and drinks a lot. Then she watches bad classic movies on AMC and crashes on the couch. She listens to "our" song, too, which is flattering and creepy at the same time. After all, she thinks I've been dead three months. I'd be over me by now, especially after all the shit I pulled on her. But I guess Scully's a nice person, rather unlike me.

What's up now? Well, damn. I just can't stay away. I'm bored, I'm healed and I'm back in the saddle. Of course, I've lost a few connections, but I always had more than a few. I'm a better assassin than Alex is. I have info-- well, besides the stuff that cretin Spender took while I was thinking I was dead. And I'm kind of off that whole "take over the world" thing right now. It's so Pinky and the Brain meets the Godfather.

So what exactly am I going to do? Hey, haven't I shared enough information with you already? Just sit back, relax, and watch it all kind of unfold in front of you...

* * *

 

**Scully:**

Mulder is going to have to die. I am hung over, and for the last time, I swear to myself. But Mulder does not respect the red-rimmed eyes and pale face of a recovering drunk. Oh, no, not Mulder. He just makes that goddamned slide projector hum and click and clack until my headache throbs in rhythm with it. The filthy, wretched son of a bitch. I should club him senseless. Or fuck him senseless.

"Scully? Are you with me?"

I take another sullen gulp of coffee. Come on, Advil, kick in, I swallowed four of you before I left for work--

"Scully?"

"Crop circles. Dead cows. Classic alien harassment situation," I say.

"Crop circles?" Mulder asks. "Scully, are you here at work today or not?" Apparently he wants to fight today. I'm getting used to this cycle of belligerence, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. Ever since Johnny died, I've been subject to either Mulder the Betrayed or Mulder the Concerned. He certainly has reason to feel the way he does, but it got old real fast, especially after the X-Files re-opened.

"I don't know," I spit back. "Since I'm never any help to you or anything, I guess I should have stayed home."

"Did you even bother to shower today?" Mulder replies fussily. "And don't deny you're hung over."

That's a little much, even for Mulder the Betrayed. Maybe he's hung over, too.

"Wow! You noticed!" I snap. "Congratulations. I'm a mess. Are you going to tattle to Skinner?"

His eyes widen, and he straightens up. Apparently that's too much for Mulder the Concerned.

"Scully, I'm worried about you," he says, trying diplomacy for a change.

"I know. It's very obvious," I reply. "If you want to say something to me, why don't you just say it instead of driving me crazy with that damn slide projector?"

"Fine!" he says, turning it off. Thank God. The noise was about to drive me out of my skull, and there's a nascent migraine hiding behind my eyes. He stares down at me and folds his arms across his chest.

"It's been three months, Scully. And you're still sulking about Johnny."

Oh, this again. Of course. We never have anything new to fight about, just the same old issues that we'll never be honest about.

"So I can't mourn?" I ask, avoiding the accusation.

"She used you. She used us. You didn't mourn for your father or for Melissa like this. So why that bitch? What makes this so different and so difficult for you?" Mulder asks. I sigh. He's right, of course. It's astounding how such a tremendous dumbass can be right so often, especially about me, whom he knows so well and not at all. There's no reason I should be crying for Johnny when my father and my sister got barely a tear in comparison. But the tears are there, whether I want them or not.

Of course, when I lost Missy and Ahab, I had support. I had Mulder there to offer a little compassion. I had my mom right along there with me to give me strength and hope in the worst moments. There were places I could turn. This is a little different.

When I lost Johnny, I lost most of my support and my life as I knew it. How many days have I seen him, staring at me with disgust? How many phone calls 'just to say hi' do I have to get? I hear him loud and clear: I can't trust you any more, Scully. You fucked Johnny, and she was bad. I have to make sure that it was only a temporary insanity on your part. That's real useful in getting over psychological trauma, Mulder.

"Maybe I decided it was time to mourn for my entire life, Mulder," I snap at him. His jaw drops momentarily then picks itself up. He's on a roll and he can't lose his outrage now.

"Scully?" he asks. I just stare at him. God, he is a caveman. He really is. The quick wit, the suits, the supposed brain and intuition are all window dressing. He has no clue to anything. Lucky for him he's pretty, or I really would have to kill him.

"I think I need to go home, Mulder," I say.

I say this because if I'm honest with him right now, he'll be hurt and then he'll do that puppy-faced earnest stalker thing with me, and I don't need or want him calling me up every five minutes today.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "I mean, Scully, I'm just worried. And you know I need you. Always."

I'm going to be sick. Just jump me already, Mulder, if that's what you want. It's not that hard. That Ed guy and Johnny had to have some effect on your opinion of my so-called frigidity, not to mention the whole Eddie van Blundht incident. All you have to do is talk nice to me and bring over wine and listen to me talk. Then make your move and I'll fall backwards.

Oh, God. I shouldn't think this. Life really could get back to normal if I'd get over Johnny. Mulder and I have the X-Files back. If I just shut up, we could be back in the car, chasing monsters and demons and aliens across America. I could enjoy myself, smelling that fantastic, expensive perfume on him or showing small-town yokels what real autopsies look like. Hell, I could even prove Mulder wrong. That always was like a mini-orgasm.

Come on, Advil; kick in before bad, hung-over Scully gives in to that pathetic lunk standing in front of her. Oh, damn, too late.

"I know," good Scully parrots. She even puts her hand on Mulder's shoulder. Hmm. He's been working out. "I'm sorry. I really shouldn't have come in. And I know you're right. I'll-- I'll be in tomorrow, okay, Mulder?"

Mulder perks up. He's right, Scully's wrong. All is well in his world. Now he's got his little ego stroke, and good Scully is behaving like she should, the traitorous bitch.

"Okay, Scully," he says. "Remember, I'm here for you. Always."

"Yeah," I say before I take off, remembering to slip on my big black sunglasses before I have to endure the ungodly brightness of the morning sun. Of course he's there. God forbid he go anywhere alone and function independently. Now let's get me home and fixed so I don't think any more dangerous thoughts.

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

Hey, I told you Scully was fucked-up. To give her credit, I don't think that's all about me or anything. I might have influenced her some, but I think all those bad girl impulses were kind of hiding in her subconscious and I just kind of helped them surface. Maybe her time to be bad has come around again.

Now if I were really a heroine, I'd fix the rift between Mulder and Scully. I'd tell them that they needed to love each other. I'd be self-sacrificing and good. I mean, hell, they're the planet's only hope or some such shit.

Sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. They're really serious about this alien-chasing, ghostbusting thing. They're earnest, hard-working government agents. The problem is, the thing they're chasing is as pathetic as they are. Even the modern Mafia is cooler than my former bosses could ever hope to be. You could never make a movie like The Godfather about the Syndicate. There is no Fredo or Michael or Don Corleone coolness going on there. They so wish, Spender and Krycek in particular.

Yeah, I kind of lost my job after that failed attempt to take over. They were moderately impressed, though. I mean, I figure they rebuilt me in admiration. Then I promptly lost my access. Of course, they totally failed to change the passwords. Old people do that. So lost access is a relative term.

So I'm watching Scully leave the Hoover building with my oodles of free time. She looks really good fucked up. I think she experimented with highlights. The red is just not the usual bright crimson, which I can't believe is natural anyway. In fact, I see a few blonde chunks.

Blonde indeed. She should see me. I went platinum blonde. Then I cut my hair off. That was wild.

I think she's dressing sexier, too. I mean, you never really wear four- inch heels without having an inner slut hidden deep within your psyche, but it's emerging with a vengeance. She's wearing the nylons with the seam. Her skirt is completely appropriate, but it clings just a little too tightly. She has her blouse unbuttoned maybe a button too far. And her sunglasses-- oh, yes. She wants it bad.

You have to agree with me that Mulder is a big prick. So what if Scully's bisexual? I'm not even sure about that, and I was her lover. It might very well have been a one-time thing, facilitated by a very persuasive seductress. I fucked him way before her, didn't I? She wasn't a cheap date, unlike some pouty boys I know. And at least she didn't sleep with the guy who killed her father.

Okay, so I follow Scully home. She really does sort of inspire stalking. Scully's too alluringly quiet. You want to get inside her head (among many other things) and she's so repressed and quiet you can't get anything. It doesn't excuse it, but there are reasons.

Scully can't drive. I want to make that eminently clear. I almost get in an accident three times following her back to her place. We reach her apartment building, and I lay low, watching her get out of the car and sashay into her building and slam the front door. I use binoculars and watch her enter her cozy little apartment.

Man, she just slams that front door behind her. BAM! She's off like a shot. Disappears into the kitchen, and then re-emerges with a bowl of ice cream. Some women can only deal with life if Ben and Jerry are there to nurse them back to copacetic. I learned this is definitely the case with Scully. We had this wild weekend once where I showed Scully how to make Ben and Jerry fulfill all your needs at once. That was fun. We should do it again sometime.

I'm proud of her. She doesn't go to the liquor cabinet, either. Good for her. She's out of all her good stuff, anyway. Don't ask how I know these things. I just know, and I told you they don't change their passwords up at Syndicate HQ.

I keep watching her sulk. She's covered with a big ugly afghan, eating a pint of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, and watching daytime's best talk shows sprawled out on the couch. It's not very entertaining after a while, and I'm reasonably sure she's not going to lose it and blow her head off. That's the kind of thing you do early on in the grieving process. So I take off.

I do have some sort of agenda going on, and one of the items on it is to avenge a few wrongs-- wrongs done to me, of course. I told you, I'm not nice or particularly out for justice. Vengeance works just fine for me-- and it's usually much easier to obtain than justice.

Jeffrey Spender has a rat-hole-- or a weasel-hole, your choice-- off in the bad part of DC. I got that from official unofficial people a while back. I told you that nobody liked that little dork. It's still the case. So off I go in my cool-ass classic Cadillac convertible to pay the little bastard a visit. It's going to be a very special visit, one that Jeff will never forget.

You see, I have a great theatrical make-up kit, and I know how to use it. I put on a wig that resembles my old long, dark siren of the rocks haircut. I look a lot more like myself with the hair. I make my face really pale and do a few tricks with the fake blood. When I emerge from the car right in front of Spender's sad-sack ghetto crib, I look dead. I really do. The poor kids in front of the building get a look at me and just go running.

So then I bust into Spender's apartment like Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta in Pulp Fiction. The door goes flying against the hinges. He's sprawled out on the couch in his "University of Indiana" t-shirt and ugly boxer shorts. Ever since that killing spree of his that didn't actually kill anyone, he's really let himself go to hell. I stagger in, and point at him, my mouth open and gaping. He full-on pisses himself. It's too much. Oh, God, I cannot laugh. Must-- not-- laugh.

"It can't be! You're dead!" he whimpers. Then he looks down. "Aw, shit!"

Thankfully, he's not looking as I really have to laugh. This is just too much. I have crossed over the line of good sense and high camp. Spender is the tragically ludicrous, though. I'm definitely in the right place.

"Jeff-rey," I gasp in this hideous sounding voice, like Yoda on crack. "Spen-darrrr."

"I'm sorry! Oh, God, please, I'm sorry I wasn't gonna kill her, please!" he yelps. Oh, fuck, this is the funniest thing I've ever seen in my life. He's praying. I have rendered young Jeff penitent, my good deed for the week.

"You killed me," I say in the same hideous voice. "Now I-- am doomed-- to wan-der--"

"I didn't want to do it, I just had to prove I wasn't a wuss, oh, God, I didn't mean to do it, man, Johnny, please go away, oh, Jesus, please!" he pleads. He really needs therapy and a clue. If I were a ghost, do you think I'd really bother to haunt Spender?

"The malls of America--" I continue. I stop, and look at him with big, wide eyes. I think he just got a clue. If not, God, let it be soon or I'm just going to fall down laughing.

"Johnny?" he asks in a quavery little voice. Tears are rolling down his cheeks. "You're not alive, are you?"

"No, of course I'm not," I say in a conversational voice. "See you later, Spender. I have a mall in Alabama to haunt." Then I walk out.

Okay, it was really childish and petty. I probably could have done fifteen million other things with my time. Then again, I'm independently wealthy. I don't have a job, or a boyfriend, or anything to do. And Spender tried to kill me. I think I was kind. I should have popped a cap in his dork ass. But he's just too pathetic.

A word to the wise. When I run into Alex Krycek, I'm not going to be so kind.

* * *

 

**Mulder:**

I slump into my chair when Scully leaves to go home. I want to cry. This is not good. She's going to walk out of my life over a girl. I always knew that Scully would leave me sooner or later, but I never imagined someone-- something-- like Johnny Valmont would be the unraveling point of our relationship.

We got the X-Files back. That day in the office when we toasted the X-Files and our partnership, I thought maybe, just maybe, Scully was finally over Johnny and that we were going to get back on track. Instead, she's just stayed the same ever since we got the news about the X-Files, which means she's silent, morose, and often hung over. She's drifting further away from me every day.

Should I report her to Skinner? No. I can't do that, I can't lose her. Even in this half-waking state, Scully is still my partner and my best friend. And my only friend, I realize as I walk down the halls of the Hoover Building. Skinner is an ally, but he's the boss. I can't talk to him about just anything. I have a couple of guys I play basketball with but they don't even know my first name. And Diana... well, I guess Diana is my friend. But she's resigned from the Bureau for some reason, and things are awkward between us.

For some reason, I end up in Skinner's office. Kimberly is sitting at her desk, typing up a storm. I hang back until she reaches the end of a page and then interrupt her.

"Is AD Skinner in?" I ask quietly.

"Yes," she says. "I'll tell him you're here."

I think this is silly, but I let her open the door, announce me, and wave me in.

Skinner looks surprised to see me. "I thought you and Agent Scully were on your way to Iowa to investigate the claims of occultist arts."

"Agent Scully, uh, had a family emergency this morning," I lie. I hate lying to Skinner. Scully owes me big time. I'd never do anything like this to her.

"Oh," Skinner says. "Is she all right?"

"She'll be fine," I say.

"Is this about Agent Valmont?" Skinner asks. "Are you two having problems?"

Well, this is a hell of a time for Skinner to turn counselor. What exactly am I going to say? I could take an easy out and tell him. But I can't and I won't do that to my partner. This has to stay between us.

"No, sir. We're not," I lie. "I just wanted to tell you we're headed for Des Moines tomorrow. Just so you know. Good afternoon, sir."

With that, I just take off, and take a deep breath of relief when Skinner doesn't chase me down the hall with questions. The thing is, I don't know how to answer the questions any more. I don't even know what the questions are.

I'm worried about her. I really am. She's never been big on mourning when there's work to be done. Work is her release valve. And now, all of the sudden she just changes on me. I've watched her go through incredible stresses and maintain a facade of extraordinary professionalism. Even now, I suppose, most people wouldn't notice the change in her. I do. It's just around the edges, something darker, something more cynical surfacing in her personality. Watching her metamorphosize before my eyes and knowing that wretched Valmont woman was the one to do it is extremely painful.

I don't know what to do, either. There is a time and a place for everything, and I don't know the time and place to ask my beautiful partner whom I adore, "Well, **are**  you gay?"

I shiver. God, what if she is? I mean, it's her choice but I-- well, it would be bad for me and my libido. I love Scully. But not only that, I lust after Scully. I'm not blind. I always thought those two facts would resolve each other naturally, and hopefully with a lot of foreplay. Now, instead, she's just slipping away. I have to hope this situation will resolve itself quietly, like with the Ed Jerse issue, or right after Emily died. We've each needed distance from time to time. Scully is a very private person, and I've learned to respect that as she's learned to respect my need for privacy.

Still, this is starting to wear thin. We have the X-Files back now, and our work is so important. I should be honest. Without Scully, without our partnership, the work will be affected. No, it's more than the work. I could give a god-damn about the work. I can't lose Scully, and especially not like this. We've been through too much. I care about her too much. I can't imagine how I'd survive if I lost Scully and the work now.

I couldn't. I won't.

My thoughts get progressively darker as I sit alone and brood in the basement. I torture myself with any number of erotic images of Scully and another woman and quite a few "Mulder, I'm out of here" moments.

Finally, I call her, even though I promised myself not to. The phone rings and rings, and my heart rate speeds up to critical mass. Then she picks up, and I can breathe again.

"Hello?" she asks, under a din of Jerry Springer or Ricki Lake or something. "Who is it?"

"It's me."

"Mulder, I'm fine. I told you. Don't worry about me."

Click.

Yeah. I won't worry, Scully, because there's absolutely nothing to worry about, right?

* * *

 

**Krycek:**

It's been one week since you died again, squished to pieces under boxes with foxes, and baby I'm sorry. One week and then another week and wait, it's been lots of weeks. The days roll past without changing. I can't even count how many because you left and I went to pieces. It seems just like an hour, one very long and hellish hour.

I fall to pieces, each time I hear your name. Johnny. Whose idea was it to give you the most common name in the universe? Why couldn't your name be Ethel? Although then I'd never get to watch the Lucy show in the bus stations because she's Ethel. But no, you're Johnny, and so's everyone else. I get confronted with your absence everywhere I turn, and I ache with it. I reek of missing.

Squish. Did it hurt to die the way you did, Johnny? It sounded painful. Your insides crushed, turned into juice and pate, all while your nerves record the exquisite sensation of pain. It hurts to remember because since you left me, things just haven't been the same. I don't have anything, since I don't have you--

Yeah, you watch me and laugh, you motherfuckers. I'm the singing bum! They probably think I tripped out in Nam or something like that, Johnny. Of course I'm way too fucking young to have been in Nam but people are stupid. They don't think you could lose your arm just anywhere.

I've been getting better, you know? Right after you died I was just fucking gone, man, out of my head, under the sea, everything's better down where it's wetta, take it from me. I drank up a lot of money, trying to forget your dead face. Now I can barely recall it, just the memory of a memory. I'm so sorry, baby. I had to sell Jake's Jag. I know it wasn't mine. Netted me fifty g's, though. Yeah, I smell and I got one arm, but I got cashola hidden around. I guess I was never too gone to have money for whiskey and Junior Mints. Yeah, I'm all about Junior Mints, remember how you yelled at me because I ate yours? Well, now I've always got a pack on me.

Just in case, I guess.

I'm on drugs, too, Johnny. This is my brain on drugs. Any questions? Yeah, I'm a real poster boy for dissipation and drunken stupors. Just hand me some smack, a forty, and Junior Mints and I'm good for about three, four hours. Then I pass out and so you're not there for another five hours. Then I do it all over again, because when I have to deal with one second of unadulterated, unfiltered you I go crazy.

Well, that was how it was at first. I'd say it was a good month, and that's when I found myself sprawled in this piss-drenched old coat curled around a bottle of Jim Beam in some goddamn place. I got up, scared three old bags holed up in their cardboard palaces, and finally found out I'd hit rock fucking bottom in Cleveland. I mean, damn. Of all the places to total out, I never thought Cleveland. LA, New York, New Orleans, Chicago-- even Memphis or Nashville has some class to it. But I was fucked in Ohio.

Can you say loser, Johnny? I knew you could. You always called me things like loser and pansy ass and I didn't mind because you were my girl, you know? Now I'm not so sure. I wasn't so bad to you. It wasn't right for you to treat me so badly. And then when you clocked me with that fucking gun, Johnny-- it wasn't right.

Okay, I'm not all better. Not even close. I still get toasted three, four times a week. But I'm doing better. I can say your name without screaming. I can think about your face that last time without throwing a screaming fit in the middle of the street. Hell, I got out of Cleveland. Yeah, I decided I'd rather spend my last days in Miami. The whores are better looking, for one thing. Plus, you can wear less. And then there are those boys! Those oiled and tight Caribbean boys! Ay carumba! Oh, have mercy!

See. Getting better every day. If I want to, I can pass as a party boy without a care in the world, just looking for some ass and some smack. They don't know that I've got you haunting my every move, keeping me crazy.

Johnny, if you forgave me, you'd help me out of this hole. I'm sorry you're dead, but you can't just leave me crazy like this. Come on. It's not right, babe. It's not right. Help me. You have to. I'm so alone here without you, and babe, I need you so much--

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

I told you that they'd whine and ramble and poeticize. See? That's what happens when you don't believe me. So, Mulder. You can tell that my heart bleeds for Mulder and his endless issues. Oh, gag me. He's annoying me, to be honest. He needs to seek help or possibly a prostitute. Not like Alex, though. Alex needs to seek a mental institution and a lot of Thorazine. Scully, Mulder, you know, they could simply use a nice psychiatrist to tell them, look, you're messed up, have sex already, how do **you**  feel about that. But Alex? Someone needs to put that boy out of his misery. I'll do it when I get around to it. Which is definitely not now.

It's kind of funny. We're still at day one, June 6th, 1999, and we have a long way to go. But I thought it was kind of important for you to get a feel for what's going on around here, because, you've just skipped three months between point a, where I was dead and point b, where I wasn't. So you had to do a little catch-up, get a feel for the situation.

Catch up. Get over it. The gang's all here and they're not much different than when you left them. Scully's boozing (well, she was boozing), Krycek's losing his marbles, and Mulder's never going to change no matter how many blows he takes to the head. And neither am I, really. I should hit the road, head for LA, and never look back. Nobody wants me back in their life. And you realize it's not going to look good if I just show up and expect everyone to forgive me. I'll be dead very, very fast if I play it like that.

So I won't. The pros are all in favor of leaving and the cons all on staying. It's especially stupid of me to get involved again. But like I said, bored, wealthy, nothing better to do, which is why I've ended up at this crummy singles' bar, plotting my next move. Pay attention, because from now on, details can be important-- or not. It depends on the detail. But yeah, pay attention to what's coming up. Because there has to be something happening in this world, doesn't there? It can't just be sex and psychology.

I'm in a bar. The name of the bar is O'Henry's, a good Irish name. The owner is a Pakistani guy named Abdul. He took it over from an Italian couple who retired to Boca. The bar is called O'Henry's for absolutely no reason. Abdul installed a CD jukebox and hired some good-looking waiters. The best looking one is named Hector, but he's not playing for the home team, damn my luck. But now instead of being a neighborhood bar, desperate horny people like me haunt this joint in search of the finest ass of the evening.

I suppose that was pleasantly crass. Yours truly is feeling confident tonight with her hard body and brand new blonde hair. I guess I could have emphasized that with my new red dress that I got at Hot Topic, but I decided to be twenty-seven and not sixteen today. There's a whole different challenge in this sort of seduction.

Let's start with what I'm wearing. White satin blouse, unbuttoned to the third button. Blue blazer thrown casually across a chair. Skirt short but not too short. Pumps with four-inch heels hidden by the table. My hair looks as though it's been frazzled from a day of work. No pantyhose. If you were looking for a dead spy who knew how to play the game, you wouldn't be looking at me. I seem to be normal. That's the joke and the challenge.

The men who come in are too old, all of them. They ogle a little too clearly. I'm not impressed. I know what I've got, boys, the appreciative gazes don't do much for me when I know you're forty, got two kids at home, and alimony payments up the butt.

I consider seducing Hector, just for a challenge. But ever since Krycek, fucking gay guys hasn't had any appeal. That's when he walks in to the beat of some stupid 1992 dance classic. I recognize the face and my eyes sink straight into my drink.

AD Skinner. Oh, my. And he looks tense in that starched white shirt of his. Not to mention the man is fucking built. Mulder isn't bad, not much compared to Alex, but Mr. Skinner has them beat by a long shot. I shift uncomfortably in my skirt.

Should I seduce him? He might recognize me. He probably won't, but there's a definite element of danger to this. If I were thinking with my head, I'd just pick someone else. But danger is exciting, and if there's anything that I've missed in the past three months, it's excitement and a good lay.

So why not? I don't have a damn thing against Walter S. Skinner FBI, but I'm not looking to screw up his life. I'm lonely. I haven't been out in public in months. I feel like having a body against mine. I have no ulterior motive and no need to continue past one night. One night won't hurt. You might want to pay attention to that detail.

So, how to play it, how to play it? Cool. Follow the script as previously conceived, just in case he recognizes me. I have to play it cool and hopefully anonymous. We shall see how it all works out. My eyes flicker up and catch his. I watch him look at me, as if he almost recognizes me. I smile into my martini.

Gotcha. Now stand up, come over here, and make my night, sir.

* * *

 

**Skinner:**

I like to think that I'm a steady, stable sort of man. Since Sharon and I broke up three years ago, there have been other women-- only a few-- nice, lonely women, my age, looking for a good time and another warm body. None of them have lasted more than two months, but it's never been bitter. The last one, Bobbi, told me that I was too nice, that maybe a little fire in my gut would inspire greater commitment.

I'm not a big bar-hopper. The women are usually too young, and tonight is no exception. When I sit down and order a bourbon, neat, my eyes scan around the hazy room, but everyone seems to be in their swinging late twenties. I'm not going to bother harassing pretty young things looking for a daddy-substitute.

I see her from across the room. She has a familiar face, which is why my gaze lasts more than a second. She's tall, slender, and God, a nice rack. In short, she's very pretty, and very blonde. There are two empty martini glasses on the lacquered tortoiseshell tabletop, and she's nursing the third one all alone. And if she didn't look at me like that, I could forget this sudden flicker of desire in my stomach. She's too young, Walter, she's way too fucking young.

But then her eyes flicker up from the depths of her martini. She has green eyes, shining and peculiar. They catch my attention. Our gazes cross directly and something like a smile flickers across her lovely face. The jade-green eyes immediately fall into the depths of her drink, but rise again, coy and challenging. Her lips bend around the edge of the glass, moist and full. It's a come-hither gaze, pure and simple. So what do I do? I do what the lady wants. I follow her gaze and reach her table, trapped by the glitter of her eyes.

"Anyone sitting here?"

"Just you," she says in a low, crackling voice. "Hey."

"Hi," I say, that match in my stomach starting a small fire. "My name is Greg. Greg Chandler."

I have no clue why I've lied to her. Maybe somewhere in that fire, I know where this is going. But I nearly choke when I hear myself lie so easily to this young woman. She smiles again, a shy smile, but somehow unsettling. Looking at her, I get deja vu all over again.

"Do I know you?"

"I don't think so," she says flatly. "Hi. I'm Bethany Hall. I work for a PR firm downtown. You?"

As she speaks, her breasts rise and fall against the satin of her blouse. I get a peek at the rounded, firm curves, as pale as the blouse. I blink and shake myself out of it.

"Err-- the government," I say, sweating beneath her cool, hypnotizing gaze. "So, Bethany--"

"I'm twenty-seven. I broke up with a long-term boyfriend three months ago. I'd cheated on him," she says, not breaking a sweat. She pulls open her sleek black bag, and pulls out an emery board. "I'm sorry if that's too fast or it surprises you. It's just that I hate bullshit small talk. How about you?"

I watch, fascinated, as she begins to file her nails. They're short but impeccably manicured in gentle ovals and painted a warm chocolate brown.

"Well-- I'm older than you. My wife and I broke up three years ago. I've had some short-term relationships since, but--"

"And you're alone tonight," Bethany answers.

"And what about you?" I ask, still staring at those fingernails. "Why are you here?"

She places a hand on my arm, and it burns like the touch of flame, connecting to the incendiary lust in the pit of my stomach. I look straight into her eyes, which are green and glowing. The sound of her breathing is harsh against my ears.

"The color's called Deep Denial. One of the few things I'm not in," she whispers, her tongue flickering out and moistening her lower lip. "You want to know why I'm here, Greg? I'm bored, and I'm lonely. I haven't been with a man since I broke up with the last one. It's been hard on me."

Her tone is brutally unsympathetic, as if she's bored by her own admission. Something in me shivers with fear and delight. And then she stands up and I'm staring at the smooth, sleek line of her thighs, hidden by a grey skirt. I think I blush. She looks down at me, and her gaze burns my cheek.

"You coming?" she asks. I gape at her. Her teeth flash in a humorless smile. "Well, you are, aren't you?"

Silently, transfixed, I stand up. She takes my hand and the same buzz of flame connects us as we stumble out into the bitterly cold air. There's a cheap motel across the street, so we don't even bother with the fumbling formalities of your place or mine. I seem to be under a spell as I follow her legs down the corridor, watching as the skirt rides up and reveals more firm flesh. We reach a hideous avocado and harvest gold love nest, and she suddenly swivels and stares me down.

"Snap out of it," she tells me coolly, pressing her finger into my shoulder.

And I do. I pull her against me, and kiss her roughly. She fights back by wrapping her smoothly clad arms around my neck and deepening the kiss, pressing her breasts against me. After a while, she gasps, a controlled little sound with no other purpose than to incite the right reaction. It makes me angry suddenly to think she's running a laundry list seduction. I don't want to be her object.

I let her go for a minute, and the fire gets out of control. She suddenly looks so familiar. It's those eyes and that coolly dangerous recklessness for herself and the world. But the face I recall is that of a dead woman and one I didn't care for anyway. Bethany starts to unbutton the satin blouse she's wearing with business-like efficiency. I snatch her hands away and tear the blouse off, breaking buttons. Then I remove her heavy-duty bra. Underneath the satin, she really has the best breasts, full, heavy, and firm. I don't pause; I move her to the bed and watch her reaction. She looks unimpressed.

I swoop down on her then, holding her captive with my weight. My mouth closes on hers again, devouring it whole, tasting the bittersalt of martini on her tongue. My hands are busily deciding what they like best about her, chasing up and down the hot, soft swells of her breasts down to the gentle curve of her waist. One of them moves to her stomach, where the skin is feverishly hot, and strokes, tracing poetry into it.

I get bored with her mouth and start mapping her jawline. When I finally reach the burning crevasse behind her earlobe and lick, I hear her moan, and arch up against me, writhing. Her hands dig into my shoulders.

She starts to recover from her temporary lassitude with remarkable force. Her hands snatch against the rough cotton of my shirt, and I watch her unbutton the material and bite into my nipple before tearing off the undershirt. Her mouth moves up, against my shoulder, and her hands nip and score my back, and one moves to my ass and pulls me tight against her.

A sudden thought crosses my mind, and it makes me laugh because I know it's true.

"What?" she asks between kisses.

"Are you trying to prove something with this?"

Rather curiously, a smile breaks across her face. "You mean the foreplay?"

"The seducing, yes."

She starts laughing. "Weren't you?"

"I'm not out to prove anything," I reply, grabbing her waistband and unceremoniously removing her skirt.

The skirt flies across the room and I have her on her back again, whimpering with some emotion. Greedily, I start to kiss down her body, pausing to lavish attention on the hollow between her breasts. The whimpers are getting hotter, as she beats on my back. My hand starts caressing her inner thigh and she clutches at my belt, fumbling to get it off as I decide to lick each of her breasts for good measure. She's very dexterous, the belt is off and the top buttons of my fly unbuttoned before she's frustrated in her attempt.

"Damn you," she swears as I reach the rise of her stomach. "You're killing me."

She lifts her hips, trying to grind against me, but I shift away from her, content to plant butterfly kisses on her stomach and stroke closer and closer elliptical paths towards her center.

"Death's too good a word for it," I reply. "Turn over."

"Oh, God," she moans, almost frighteningly quick to comply. "It's been too long."

But instead of the violence she's expecting, I start kissing my way down her back, kneading the tense muscles in her shoulders, spreading her thighs, but only to caress and rub her body until she's keening.

"Give it to me," she growls. I laugh. This is nearly killing me, too, to have her open and willing for anything I might desire.

"Close your eyes and count to ten," I whisper, nibbling on her earlobe and pressing myself against her ass.

"Finally."

"I don't hear you counting, Bethany," I say as I remove my pants.

"Onetwothreefourfive--"

"Slower, Bethany," I say, watching her grind into the mattress with lustful abandon. "And lift yourself up for me. Hands and knees, I assume you know what to do. Keep your eyes closed and don't move unless I tell you."

Again, swift compliance. "Six," she says deliberately, as I place my arms around her waist. "Seven."

I position myself against her and slide against the outsides of her folds. "EIGHT!" she gasps. "Nine--"

I press into her without finesse and start fucking her, thrusting hard and deep into her. Again, there is nothing but compliance and a sort of approval. We find a rhythm almost immediately. She knows what she's doing, and I almost choke as I remember what happened with the last professional girl.

Oh, God. I slide out of her, much to her audible dismay.

"Not now, not now," she whimpers as she slides to the bed, disappointed. I grab her shoulder and turn her over. She looks angry.

"You're all right, aren't you?"

"Not anymore," she hisses. "What's wrong with you?"

I recognize her clearly then. Amazing how the dead can be so flexible in bed. I breathe easier. Nobody's going to kill the dead to set me up. I turn her back over.

"Touch yourself, Bethany," I order. She moans, and her hand moves to her clit and starts grinding against it brutally, tilting her ass up just right.

I push her into the bed and thrust into her again, moving harder and crueler than I ever imagined I could, and her hand is twisting and bouncing underneath us and she starts howling, pushing up against me and suddenly she just screams, and her body contracts against me. It's not enough. I shake her like a rag doll until the second set of spasms runs through her, as she sobs and finally I come, hard.

Then the cold water of reality breaks my fever and I stare at the limp, damp body splayed across the bed like an offering to whatever god I'd just sacrificed myself to in the name of lust. What was I thinking?

She starts breathing normally and rolls over. Her face is wild, damp and sweaty and rose-tinged. "That was incredible," she says, a genuine, human smile on her face. "My God."

"Are you all right?"

"I should say so," she replies. "They should lock you up as a National Treasure. Every woman needs one of you."

"We shouldn't have done that."

"I'm on the Pill."

"I don't mean like that-- although, thank God," I say, taking a deep breath. "That was--"

"That was good fucking," she says. "Nothing more, nothing less. Do you want to do it again?"

I stare at her. She shrugs and her gaze flickers downward. My God, I'm in bed with the devil. And I can't bring myself to break from her company. It's like a drug. The earlier smile, the false and inhuman one, has resumed its place on her lovely face, and my heart pounds against my ears.

"You mean now?"

"I certainly don't mean tomorrow," she replies. "Or do you like the idea of a twentysomething trophy plaything?"

"I'm not like that. And you--"

She nods. "Then, certainly, I mean tonight. But now it's my turn to give it to you," she says, the gleam coming back into her eyes. Breathlessly, I watch her eye me with appreciation and a clinical detachment.

The cold of reality sinks back into the feverish madness, and I'm almost too glad to accept it as her hands find my skin and we start all over again. I feel an eerie sympathy for her last victims and pity for myself. Morning will bring many things, including sanity, but just for now I accept the madness.

* * *

 

**Scully:**

My legacy from the estate of one Special Agent Johanna Valmont is her very extensive and occasionally obscure CD collection. Johnny spent far too much money on CDs. But I suppose she had the money. It doesn't matter. It's just a character quirk that stays with me. The point is that her CDs sit in my player and all the songs she used to sing cycle endlessly through my speakers.

Like this awful song doomed to play an eternal loop in my brain this morning: "Hey, Jupiter, nothing's been the same, so are you gay? Are you blue? Thought we both could use a friend to run to--" and all this stuff about masochists, dresses, dolls and the Apocalypse.

Meanwhile, between choosing between showers and baths, I've made one of those decisions, the sort that I make after nights of abandon and mistakes and that sort of thing. I decide to get over and let my life continued as previously scheduled. This one was long overdue and it felt very comforting last night in my apartment to say, loudly and distinctly:

"Go to hell, Johnny Valmont."

It felt good. In fact, it felt spectacularly good, so I say it again.

"Go to hell, Johnny!" and for the first time since I got the phone call that she was dead, I feel like I'm not holding back from myself. Instead of going through the motions of mourning, and the sullen, half- assed attempts at anger, sorrow, rage, the entire ball of wax, it's real. I don't bother to cordon off how much I hated the cold, serpent- eyed bitch who screwed me to win a bet, and how much I loved the beautiful, dark-haired woman who laughed and teased and caressed me into bed and made me feel like a queen.

Those three days when I locked myself up, I wasn't mourning. I was in shock. She had left me only the day before, and the double heart attack of losing her in every way, shape, and form left me staring at the wall and trying to count to ten. I couldn't imagine what would happen to me now if Mulder were to die. I think I might never speak again, I'd be so angry and so lost at the same time.

Catharsis is the word that wanders around my brain after the music, which, thankfully, has changed. Johnny's music addiction led to her showing me how to get the most out of the 20-disc changer Charlie got me one Christmas. Random shuffle is my friend, although I'm not so sure of that when the next song comes up. Now I'm going to have the Rocking 80s in my head when I go to work and apologize to Mulder.

Take my breath away, indeed.

I let myself linger on Johnny a little longer as I finish dressing. She was always at her most vulnerable and human in the morning. It was charming, watching her get out of bed and slowly awaken. She never wore much, usually this tissue thin white silk nightie that barely reached mid-thigh. I could see her breasts through it. Her first snappy comeback of the morning came after coffee, and a gentle, sleepy kiss on the top of my head.

I can imagine Mulder being like that. Johnny had more than a little Mulder in her (hideous pun not intended, I realize as I imagine Johnny straddling Mulder, the both of them absolutely nude), and it wasn't just the tall, dark, and handsome aspect of her. They were both dangerous, shrouded in shadow, and more than willing to show this poor, sane, safe woman exactly how it felt to touch fire.

At the same time, I feel Johnny had that same honest, beautiful spirit Mulder had. They both love so much and so hard that it's overwhelming and a little scary, not to mention illogical. How else could I know and Mulder know we were in love but never have the courage to say it or do anything? But I think I was deceived in that by Johnny. Mulder is not a cutthroat, but he's no saint. And he can be as cruel as that dark- haired woman who told me "I love you" and "It's beyond my control" with the same tongue during the same hour. I've seen his eyes turn as cold as hers when she coolly bade me farewell.

Am I mourning Johnny because she's a version of Mulder? They're not that interchangeable, but do I see a possible future in her dead bones?

The Hoover Building looks leprous against the splotchy sunshine and clouds that hover over it. I walk in on shaking legs, cursing the masochist inside who loves high heels. I don't think anyone else realizes how close I am to twisting my ankle and falling down. But I don't think anyone else is looking directly at me, either.

My fate is on the bottom floor, and I'm alone when I emerge from the elevator. I stand there, damp with the perspiration of fear, my heart pounding against the cage of my skin, my breathing ragged and frightened, like a child threatened with the monsters in the dark.

I walk into the office. My God, he's wearing his glasses. They're not quite as attractive as they were at first, when his hair didn't look like it was recovering from the attack of a rabid weasel. But they're still damned sexy on him. But that's not what I'm here to think about. I am thinking about work and good interpersonal relationships, the kind that don't involve fucking. Fucking screws things up. Case in point: Johnny Valmont. Mulder and I fucked her. Our lives got shot to hell.

"Hey there," he says. "I'm sorry. I was way too hard on you yesterday."

He looks so sweet and worried, shifting back and forth as he tries to apologize. He's never been very good at it. Neither am I, to tell the truth.

"It's all right. Neither of us were holding our tongues," I say. "It was a good thing. Sometimes we need to let it out."

"You sound like a therapist. Let it all hang out-- you do remember we're going to Des Moines today, right?"

"Yup. I've got my Midwestern suitcase in the trunk of my car. I even remembered a few fun facts about corn so that I have the right small talk," I say dryly. "Mulder-- it's good to have the X-Files back."

He looks at me curiously. "Yeah," he agrees. "You look a lot better today. You've been looking tired lately, Scully."

"I have been rather tired lately," I admit. "So, as I recall, the man who brought this case to your attention-- a Mr. Thompson-- was discussing the fact all the crows in his neighborhood hover around a particular spot in his cow pasture, then suddenly his cows all start mysteriously dying, and how he thinks it's UFO related?"

"Yes ma'am," Mulder replies. He looks slightly awed. I allow myself a little smile.

"Well, sir, were there mutilations or is this just a disease related issue?"

"I don't know. I'd assume someone had already checked out the disea--" Mulder says. He sighs. "Don't say it. I already know."

"Let's go to Iowa, Mulder," I say, walking over and touching his clean white shirt. "Who knows? It could be an X-File."

I don't care whether it is or not right now. I suddenly feel a burst of rightness flowing through the room. Instead of the divisive tension that has been plaguing us, there's a new unity. And I don't think it was all me or all him. We're partners. We're very good at being partners, and the give and take of that relationship.

"And you saying that is an X-File in itself," he says sardonically, getting up and grabbing his coat. "Our flight--"

"We've got an hour and forty-five minutes," I reply, as he puts on his coat and guides me out of the office with that strong, gentlemanly hand of his.

"We've got DC traffic."

"We'll make it. Did you get someone to feed your fish?" I ask as we walk towards the elevator. He looks at me with horror.

"The fish?"

"Oh, God, Mulder. Poor Ringo and Bingo," I say as the doors open. "Sacrificed for some gallivant in Iowa and the pursuit of corn."

"Scully," he says. "I gave my latest fish to my neighbor, Mrs. Horowitz, after they called the PETA people on me."

"Good for you," I say as the doors shut.

Go to hell, Johnny Valmont.

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.

So I suppose that touching show of self-sacrifice and reconnection really touched your heart or turned you on or something. They will work it out, good old Mulder and Scully. They have to. They love each other, and they're committed to their relationship. True enough. But how boring can we get? Ringo and Bingo? I really hope Mulder didn't name the fish Ringo and Bingo because I will lose all respect for the man if he did.

Oh, wait, that can't happen. I don't have any respect for Mulder anyway.

I don't know what to do or think about the whole situation. I mean, I'm actually rather pleased that Scully finally decided that I was the devil with good hair, but that's probably a function of my being a sick kitten. Well, can't kittens be sick? They're sicker than puppies. This I know from raising one too many stray kitties in the Deep South and Los Angeles of my youth. I don't want to go into a long, rambling discussion of my drunk momma and me, pluckily getting along in the ghetto, because that's bullshit. I never really had to live in the ghetto. My grandpa was the Man, after all.

But kittens are mean. They bite and scratch. They pounce when you're not expecting it. They don't let go. Puppies are dumb. They slobber more than they bite. Puppies go belly-up at the first little sign of affection. Mulder's a puppy. And we've all got more than a few not-nice names for me, don't we?

I'd kind of been planning a little trip to Mulder's apartment ever since I got into DC, but there was that night with Skinner and then Mulder and Scully took off to motherfucking Iowa, the big flat place with corn and farmers and X-Files and did I mention the corn? I don't do Iowa. I don't do most of the United States, actually, because sunshine and nature make me shudder and sneeze. Country people give me a rash. No, thank you, I prefer civilization.

So, what the hell was I talking about? Oh, right, Mulder. Torturing Mulder, that is definitely a pastime worth investing in. It's also remarkably easy to participate in and feel absolutely no guilt about.

This time, I decide to bag the ghost schtick. That was a special occasion and Jeffrey Spender did deserve it. He did almost succeed in killing me, after all. Nobody else would be dumb enough to fall for it, either. I think I'm just going to shock the pants off Mulder. Although who knows with him. He might be used to the dead coming back to life and haunting him.

I decide Friday night is the best night, because I know Mulder. It'll be him, a video, and a six-pack on the couch. I like this idea. I like it so much I spend all day at the mall, liking this idea and considering exactly how I'm going to surprise him. Shopping is the best activity when you're plotting. I spend a hundred bucks on a pair of gold pants and a flimsy black blouse while perfecting my dialogue. Then I find the shoe section.

I see it very clearly. There's me, walking in, wearing said ensemble. Mulder is stretched out on the couch, his hand clenched around the bottle of beer, which is dripping voluptuous perspiration.

"Hey, Mulder," I say in my best Scarlett O'Hara meets Kate Hepburn voice. "Did you miss me?"

He grabs me and pulls my hands up over my head. Then, with his free hand, he feels my heart beat.

"You bitch! You complete and utter bitch!" he screams.

"What?"

"You're alive!"

"Yeah. Surprise."

The fantasy never gets any further than that, because I have to pull out my wad of cash (only the bourgeois use plastic) and pay the pierced and pleasantly alternative salesgirl. She convinces me to buy nail polish, not a difficult enterprise in any reality. Clutching my tokens of conspicuous consumption, I walk out of the store and keep going.

Sitting in the food court, I wonder what the hell happened to me. One week, I'm plotting to take over the world and do momentous, earth- shattering things, and now I'm eating Hot Dog On A Stick and pulling cheap, childish stunts on people who have much better things to do than play with me. What did happen to me? And what can I do? I have no access, no power, and I'm dead to the world. I can spend money until I die, but that drove my mother, my grandmother, and God only knows how many other Consortium women out of their minds.

Does the name Teena Mulder mean anything to you?

Still, I have more than a little drama queen lurking in my soul, and I simply can't ditch this opportunity for fun. Mulder is too tempting. I must go and face my destiny.

Time passes, and Friday night arrives like clockwork. I could be anywhere else on Earth, really. I could be having dinner with the President or dancing in a Barcelona disco. But instead, I am wearing my brand-new gold pants and blonde hairstyle, walking up the sidewalks of Old Town Alexandria. I pause three times before Mulder's building, I even start to walk back, but that perverted element running through my grifter's soul sends me sailing into the building.

Nobody looks at me on the elevator, despite the fact I look desperately out of place in my apparel. I suppose Mulder's neighbors have all learned to expect the strange around here. Nobody looks shocked when I get off the elevator at his floor, either. Fortunately, I don't have to knock either. I had a key made before I died. Mulder doesn't know this, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

As usual, I'm right about everything. Mulder is leaned back on the couch, hand groping the slick exterior of the beer bottle, watching some blonde bimbo fake an orgasm on his poor, abused television screen.

"What's up?" I ask, blocking his view of the screen. He doesn't move for a long moment. Instead, he stares at me. "Hi, Mulder, did you hear me?"

"Johnny?" he asks, just horrified beyond belief. "That is you, isn't it?"

"In the flesh, on the QT, and very hush-hush," I reply cheerfully.

"Rumors of your demise were apparently exaggerated. Very exaggerated," he says, slowly placing his beer on the coffee table. "Blonde?"

"Yeah," I say. "Well, Mulder, what do you think?"

"About what?"

"Me being alive."

His blue-grey-green eyes stare at me with disbelief. "I don't know," he says, the profiler in him gleaming through his apparent expression. "You're a desperately nasty woman, Johnny Valmont. It's kind of disturbing to see you alive and well. Please tell me you've at least caught the clap."

"Are you going to hurt me?" I ask, somewhat perturbed at his lack of homicidal rage. "I didn't exactly fake my own death, by the way. I was as surprised as you were to find out I was alive."

"Somehow I doubt that," he says lightly. "Why don't you just leave? We have nothing left to say."

I roll my eyes and lean up against the wall of his apartment. "Sure we do, Mulder," I say. "When you think of something, just say it. I don't have anything better to do."

And the sad part is, I really don't.

* * *

 

**Mulder:**

I knew Johnny Valmont was good, but I never imagined she'd come back from the dead. I stare at her in horror, taking in the nightmare image before me. Her long dark hair is now short and blonde. It's not unattractive, but it doesn't suit her. The eyes are the same, the bottle-green eyes of a serpent. And leaned against my wall, she seems like the original snake, come to tempt me with a juicy red apple.

In the day ye eat thereof, ye shall be as gods...

I call up the horrific Johnny in the red dress, watching Krycek rape me. I try to make that ward off any interest I have in the woman, and it squelches my nascent erection very effectively, but not the curiosity. She just stands there, absolutely silent, waiting for some reaction from me.

"Did you see Elvis?" I ask sardonically, standing up and getting off the couch. "What brought you back, Johnny? They don't fuck in the afterlife?"

"Well, you'll be prepared, then, won't you?" she replies, closing her eyes and tilting her head back. "What are you doing?"

"Getting my handcuffs."

"I didn't come here for sex, Mulder," she calls after me as I get my spare cuffs out of the bedroom. But she's still pretending to be a statue when I return, slam her down on a chair, and cuff her to it. "Mulder!"

"You have the right to remain silent--"

"Fuck you! You can't arrest me! On what charges?" she shrieks, yanking at the cuffs furiously.

"It's a crime to fake your own death!"

"That was NOT my idea, asshole! I was kidnapped! I didn't know my ass from my elbow!"

"How about accessory to rape and sodomy, then? You know that's got a little more weight to it."

The color drains from her cheeks. "You wouldn't."

"You have the right to an attorney, if you can't afford one, one will be provided for you. You know the drill, don't you? Ready for a nice visit to Central Lock-Up, Johnny? Welcome home." I lean down, close enough to smell the spicy, heady perfume of her skin. "There is **no**  part of this I'm not enjoying."

She spits on me. Before I can stop myself, the back of my hand catches her cheek. I didn't actually mean to hit her, it was just a reflex. She recoils and stares up at me with narrowed eyes.

"None of your shit charges will stick, Mulder," she hisses. "I've got a fucking law degree from Yale, remember? I am not afraid of you. It's going to be your word against mine, and you were drunk at the time and I never laid a finger on you. And now you just hit me. Try to arrest me. Try to get me sent to prison. I'll have the ACLU so far up your ass you'll be able to taste them fucking you over."

I glare at her. My genius Oxford grad side tells me she's right, my FBI lawman side hisses about her pathology and the rest of me wants to knock her down and strangle her. All of this resolves itself into one comment when I notice that her nipples are hard.

"You're the sickest person I've ever met," I tell her. "Does anything fail to turn you on?"

Her face is flushed, but on second take, it could be a bruise. She looks at me with indolent jade eyes and shrugs.

"Cigars."

I laugh and then tear open her blouse. She sneers at me.

"Oh, Mulder, is this what it always comes down to? Sex and violence? I'd prefer religion and a lobotomy," she says, sounding bored.

I hate Johnny. I really and truly do. I could hit her, I could rape her, and I don't think that smug, self-possessed little smile would slip off her face. And that's what I really want, to wipe that superior smirk from off her beautiful face, and prove that this interloper who dared to turn my world upside down can bleed just like me. I want my sanity and my partner back from her clutches.

"How do you want to play this, babe?" she asks, licking her lips. "I'm getting so tired of waiting for you to stop imitating Hamlet."

"I could still haul your ass to jail, you know. Maybe I wouldn't win, but there would be jail, and bail bonds, and no nail polish. And your hair would look great against those orange jumpsuits," I say speculatively. She tries to claw me with her free hand, but I jump back, retrieve my other cuffs, and chain her to the chair.

"I'd make you pay until after you were dead," she hisses. The anger is human and very refreshing. And arousing.

"Oh, I'm not GOING to. It would be too petty. Like pretending to be dead for a cheap laugh," I say, dropping to my knees before her. "You're really extraordinarily beautiful. It's wasted on you."

"You're such a sweet talker," she replies. "Make a choice."

"I have," I reply, looking up at her. "Talk to me, Johnny."

"About what?"

"About her," I say. "Tell me about what it feels like with her."

She laughs. "I don't think so," she says. "You'd lose your shit and I don't have that big of an erotic death wish."

"Tell me."

"Why don't you ask **her**?"

"Did you like it? Did it feel good, touching her? Or was it all business?"

Her eyes go emerald. "No," she says. "I liked it. With you, it was sex, and it was all right. But I fell hard for her. It brought out the best in me. Dammit, Mulder, you're a sick, sick pup."

I'm tired of her half-assed answers.

"I'm going to drag your ass to jail--"

"Have you ever considered just kissing her? You want to know what it felt like? Okay, Mulder, it was violent. She marked me up but good after we got started. I'd lose my mind over her body. But it was never enough," she says. "Once, she accidentally called your name."

Oh, God. My hand, I realize, has been stroking my groin for quite a while now. Again, it's not thought, it's reflex. It's instinct. This woman is deadly and she's not even trying.

"Say it like she would," I order.

"Why don't you just fuck it out of her?" Johnny asks. "I can't be Scully for you. You yourself told me that, as I recall. Sick, morbid man, can't manage to seduce a woman for himself--"

Damn this woman and damn my response to her. I push the sleek black skirt up around her waist. I shake my head at what I find.

"No underwear?"

"I hate visible panty line," she replies breathlessly, as I pull back and undo my pants. "So."

I close my eyes and invoke another woman. Any face, just not that one. Scully's clear eyes and red hair obligingly appear.

"Don't speak," I order her.

"She wants you," Johnny says, quite ignoring my orders as I find her opening and thrust. "You know, she talked about it. Of course, this was before I'd slept with her. We were being friendly-- good friends make good lovers and all that."

I groan and bite her on the neck. It's not her, it's not her, her body liquid fire around me, coating me and consuming my soul. It's some other woman. I'm with anyone except Johnny Valmont.

"Ooh, God!" Johnny howls. "It's all about being strong and silent. She shoves you up against the wall, kisses you hard, and doesn't let go. No talking, because she doesn't want your words."

"Shut up!" I growl, pulling her head toward me and kissing her. She pumps her hips against me and I place my hand over her mouth. "I don't want your words, either."

But I do, and my eyes are screwed shut, muffling Johnny beneath me so I can turn her into someone else. The words have galvanized me. She. Wants. Me. Scully wants me enough to share that information with her lover. I speed up, thinking about swan-white skin beneath mine, strong thigh muscles gripping me. She. Wants. Me.

Suddenly Johnny's body convulses around mine, sweet and hot and burning. There is a pain in my hand. The little bitch bit me. And the pain is unexpected and pleasant and with two more good hard thrusts I come, with the wrong name on my lips as I free my hand from the slick lips of the demon who writhes under me.

I open my eyes. I see nothing but Johnny's green eyes, glowing with malevolent fire. They match mine, reflecting my face and I realize tears are running down my cheeks. She sighs.

"Let me go," she says wearily. I come to my senses and pull away from her. Fumbling, I unlock the cuffs, and she glares as she rubs her wrists. "You're a mess, Mulder."

She walks into my bedroom. "What are you doing?"

"I need a shower," she says, slamming the door. I stare at it and then slump on the couch, where I sit, bemused, when she re-emerges, wearing the blood-red silk blouse she left at my house right before her death. I start.

"Did I hurt you?" I ask.

"Bruises," she says curtly. "Serves me right. For God's sake, Mulder, put some clothes on!"

"Maybe later. Johnny."

"Yes, Mulder?"

"She really does?"

"Oh, Mulder. Get a fucking clue," she says, walking out and slamming the door.

* * *

 

**Krycek:**

This morning I wake up and realize Johnny is dead and is never coming back. Holed up in my new buddy Roberto's bed, naked and in desperate need of a fix, I start to sob. Roberto doesn't wake. He merely turns over and keeps snoring, sleeping the sleep of the stoned. I keep crying, tears burning my skin and snot dripping down my face. I get out of the bed, stark naked, and wobble into the bathroom, snorting and choking. Then I lurch over to the toilet and vomit.

Oh my God. Oh my God. She's dead. It's been a long time, too. She's dead.

But I'm alive. I survived her.

"Lexi?" I hear from outside the door. "You are okay, are you not?"

"Yeah," I grunt. I throw up again, right down my chest. But I can continue to think and to move and to live like a normal person. "I'm going to shower."

"You want me to do your back?"

"No, thank you."

I wrench on the shower and make the water hot enough to scald. The water rinses down my body in heated waves, washing the sense back into me as I stare at the sleekly modern violet and black tile of the wall. Dead. She's dead, meaning not-alive. Meaning she has no more effect on my world than a butterfly in China flapping its puny wings.

What day is it? Hell, what year is it? Awkwardly, I rub shampoo into my hair, lather my body and note I'm seriously out of shape right now. I rinse that bitch right out of my hair and watch the Miami sunshine stream over me, highlighting the planes and angles of my body.

What day is it? I ask myself again as I dry myself off vigorously, looking at the heroin-chic poster boy wearing my face in the mirror. God, I need a fix bad. I fucked myself over but good recently. And for what? A woman. Over a pair of legs and a nice smile. Idiot.

Roberto is stretched out in white cotton boxer shorts on the bed. He is eating frosted flakes and watching MTV. He smiles at me as I pad in.

"Lexi! I was so worried! Are you all right, my Russian bear?"

"I need a fix," I say flatly.

"Of course!" he agrees passionately. "Withdrawal, I know, is such a bitch."

Oh, good God in heaven, he's a swish. That's not my style at all. I never went for these limp-wristed motherfuckers at all. They're just too girly. But he's got heroin to shoot up with, frosted flakes, and a nice condo to hang out in, so I can deal with Roberto's affectations for now.

"You look very awake today, Lexi, very macho," he says as I pull on a pair of boxers and some ill-fitting, if very expensive, designer jeans. "It's muy sexy."

"What about the heroin?"

He finds me some, and I shoot up. The fix is good. It's almost too good, and I understand the double appeal of the drug to a madman like I've been. Forget Johnny, forget life, this is bliss. Hell could be Heaven with enough heroin to wash it up with. I loathe the necessities that drove me to this.

I wolf down the frosted flakes Roberto hands me, and begin considering my current situation and what to do about it. Several possibilities start swirling in my addled brain. First, I have to discern when I am. Then I have to weigh pros and cons and then-- lights camera action.

"Roberto?"

"Yes?" he asks, flipping to Cartoon Network.

"What's today?"

"Today is Saturday."

"Okay, but what's the date?"

"June 19, 1999."

Johnny died on March second. It has been more time than I could have possibly imagined in my drug-induced haze. I've missed spring. I've lost time more cleanly than any abductee. I stretch now, and walk toward Roberto, looking tanned and resplendent in his idiocy. I sit down next to him and smile.

"A smile? For me!" he coos.

"Just for you."

He grins and places a hand on my thigh. "It is so good to see you like this, Lexi! I am so happy for this!"

"I'm glad," I say softly, putting my arm around him gently. I wait a moment, then I break his neck.

Roberto's eyes stare up at me, glassy and dead, as I go through the place looking for items. I need clothing, money, valuables; I don't care as long as it's useful. I don't care about his eyes. Such eyes have stared up at me many times and only once, only once did they affect me.

Johnny's eyes were so green in death, greener than emeralds, greener than grass; they were the only green I've ever seen that was true. Her death was different. No. Scratch that. That's a bad path to go down. She died like everyone else: violently and in the pursuit of nothing. There's nothing special about Johnny being dead. People die.

Hell, she brought it upon herself! I start stuffing my duffel bags with heroin, money, clothing, and jewelry thinking about the situation that caused Johnny to get herself killed. She wasn't smart. She used her heart, not that brilliant, hard head of hers. She didn't know who to play and who to keep away. It wasn't my fault.

It wasn't. I never meant for her to die. I got Spender there just to teach her a lesson, and if she wasn't smart enough to keep herself alive, well, that's her fault.

I find the keys to a Ferrari in the kitchen. Thank you, God, for finding me Roberto. Apparently, he was connected or wealthy, even if he was a swish. Poor guy. I take the keys, and go into the garage.

Nice car. I probably went with him for the car, but I'm not really sure. I load the loot into the trunk, and open up the garage. Yeah, fucking Johnny. I feel all guilty for months, God only knows what sort of diseases or problems I've picked up besides the heroin addiction, and she got her own dumb ass killed.

I commit a major no-no of the Cult of the Car. I touch Roberto's levels as I pull away from his stucco and Spanish tile palace, and switch his stations. You never touch a man's levels. I mean, his property, maybe, his woman, if you can, but his levels? That's asking to be shot to death. Oh well, Roberto's dead anyway, isn't he?

He's dead like Johnny. Both of their dumb asses, thinking they knew so much, but Big Daddy Alex showed them. Hell, Spender killed Johnny. That shows that she wasn't fit to survive in the world she wanted to play in.

A good goddamn thing, too, I decide as I find my way to the nearest 7- 11. If Johnny wasn't dead, I think I'd have to kill her for all this bullshit I've gone through. It's her fault she's dead, and I'm the one who's suffering?

Yeah. Yeah, I decide as I walk into the 7-11 and get, no, not more motherfucking Junior Mints, a 6 pack of beer, a newspaper, some Slim Jims, a whole slew of junk food, and directions to the freeway. Johnny fucking hit me, then she dies on me, and I'm the one who's supposed to be sorry?

Oh, no. Oh, not anymore, baby. I'm back and if you were alive, you'd be the sorry one. Trust me on that.

The salt air and brisk wind hits me like a shot and I howl like a crazy person when I get the Ferrari to seventy-five. Oh, yessirree Bob, she'd be the one who was sorry.

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

Bad news is a bitch and a half to share. Once it's out there, it's easy to repeat and to dissect, but the original confrontation is terrifying and uncomfortable in most cases.

I've returned to Mulder's apartment four times since that first rather unsatisfying night. We don't talk. No banter, no accusation, no discussion. I arrive, I take my clothes off, and then we fuck. Then I lock myself in his bathroom, shower, and go home. I always arrive after midnight and spend no more than an hour and a half in his apartment. I usually close the door to the sound of sobbing or retching. But he never says a single word to get rid of me. I would leave if he asked. But he hasn't, and I don't feel guilty.

I'm still pretending my day job is that of a rich housewife. And it still really sucks. So much so that about last week, I ran out of new movies to see and I had to find something else to do. I ended up doing two things. One, I hit the club circuit wearing blue satin aprons and a lot of glitter.

Two, I decided to get back in the game. A little of the old, nasty Johnny with the power fetish resurfaced to complement the spendthrift nymphomaniac. I started playing phone tag with my associates, and when they finally realized I wasn't dead and still good for a game, they called back. Information landed in my possession, chunks of important and frightening information. Then I started throwing up, and all my plans were suddenly altered.

Tonight, I have to break my Mulder-pattern. I'm waiting there on the couch when he arrives home from work. I'm wearing a red and black merry-widow, garters, and black patent heels. He stares at my ensemble with something between incredulity and anger.

"Bedroom," I say flatly. "Now."

I leave pieces of my outfit behind on the way to the bed so that Mulder has a nice trail of breadcrumbs to follow. I throw myself across the mattress and spread wide. No, I'm not a romantic. Did something give me away?

Mulder's jaw drops as he walks into the room. There is something to be said for romance as a way to create arousal. But the hormonal drive in Mulder reasserts itself despite the lack of soft lighting or sentimentality, and he methodically undresses. I notice, though, he won't look at me.

"You don't have to bother," I tell him as he goes for the drawer with the condoms. He shoots me a confused glare and gets one anyway. Without finesse, he plops down on the bed beside me, grabs my hands, and pulls them over my head. He kisses his way down my neck cruelly, sucking and biting like a horny vampire. His erection presses against my stomach for a moment, hard and thick. I look at him curiously as he pushes against me, forehead beaded with sweat and his eyes screwed shut.

Yeah, it's such a turn-on to realize you're a stand-in for someone else.

He moves away from me long enough to get the condom on, eyes wide shut, and then they flutter closed again and he slides against my body and finally buries himself to the hilt in my flesh. I know this doesn't sound at all appealing, but sex isn't always appealing. Sometimes, it's a process, where you and your lover find a brisk rhythm that works for you, and then your mind wanders to more fertile pastures, so to speak.

These other concerns excite me far more than the slap and thrust of Mulder's body against mine. I start dreaming, paradoxically, of Alex, and of a different future. My hands flutter down and caress Mulder's back and ass, and I start to moan, thinking of all the secrets hidden in the layers of my body.

Sex can be trite, I think as the friction increases and I start pumping my hips faster and harder against Mulder's counterthrust. I arch up, memory and pheromones providing a mindless pleasurable experience in the now, pressing into him, pulling his mouth to mine for a kiss. He takes pity on me, or on whomever he's fucking in his head, and alters his angle ever-so-slightly so he rubs against my clit.

It seems like everything and nothing all at once as I take a deep breath and gasp in and in, fighting the sane urges-- to breathe, to get out of this place, to just disappear from this dangerous and unpleasant world I've trapped myself in. I fight the sane urges because the sensation is overwhelming, the mixture of danger and the painful ache of incipient pleasure resting at the base of my spine as I snap another intake of air and feel my head go swimmy and my body thrash and suddenly oh my god oh my god-- bam! Breath and completion in one explosion of a second, and it swells my world to immensity. Can it really be so empty and trite?

You bet your life it can. Sex, after everything is stripped away from it, is a celebration of the physical, and as any monkey can tell you, there's more to being human than eating, breathing, defecating, and procreating. That misogynist cokehead Freud might disagree, but he's full of it.

Mulder, oblivious to everything but himself, thrusts two or three more times and comes, brief, hard, and quickly. He immediately lets me go and rolls off me. After a minute when it becomes obvious I'm not following routine, he turns to look at me disapprovingly.

"We have to talk," I say. "It's important."

"What?"

"Just two things," I say, sitting up and smoothing my hair. "Look at me."

"Tell me already."

"I'm pregnant."

He doesn't respond, just breathes in and out, listening to me.

"What's the second thing?"

I take a deep breath.

"The end of the world is in eight months," I say. "Well, not the end of the world, but a big-ass test-drive of it. The boys up top expect about one in ten of us to bite it, mostly in China, but some nice civilized American folks will have to die, too."

His eyes snap open then, and he gapes at me.

"You can't be serious," he says in a low voice.

"No, I believe it. I got this information from a reliable source," I say. "They're calling it the Beijing Butterfly Flu-- really funny, huh? And it's a nasty mother--"

He shakes his head. "You're pregnant?"

"Yeah. I'm pregnant," I say. "Mulder, what about the end of the world?"

"Am I the father?"

"Yeah," I say. And I'm pretty sure he is. The odds are in favor of the brooding bastard.

"How? We were careful--"

Indeed we had been, and I had been extremely pissed off when the little plus sign came up on the pregnancy test. The cursing could probably be heard on the street. But the baby is not the important thing at the moment. There is no need to think in terms of Afterschool Specials and barefoot, unwed mothers when a billion people are going to die.

"We got really unlucky," I reply. "Mulder? I'm sure you're very proud that your big manly phallus impregnated passive little old me, but we've got other problems. This guy who tiipped me off about the plague is a real Obi-Wan Kenobi. He's wise and inscrutable, but he tells me fuck-all by way of details and is very, very manipulative."

Mulder nods and absent-mindedly places his hand on my stomach. When he holds it there a while and doesn't speak, I lose my temper again.

"Ooh," I snap, pushing his hand away. "I think the baby just kicked. She doesn't like you either."

"What are we going to do?" he asks.

"Well, I am going to investigate the Harvey-Millholland Corporation to see if I can stop the Beijing Butterfly from killing 580 million people worldwide. You, apparently, are going to knit cute pink wool booties and worry about bloating," I tell him acidly. "Jesus, Mulder, get with it! Big plague! Lots of dead people! Do I need to go get Scully to slap the sense back into you?"

He stiffens. No, not like that, you perverts.

"No! You can't talk to Scully. Especially now that you're pregnant. I-- she-- no. Please. We'll handle this. Do you really think the Beijing Butterfly is for real?"

"It's deadly serious, Mr. Mulder," I tell him in my best philosophical dead guy voice. "February 29, 2000. Someone, somewhere, is going to sneeze. Then there won't be enough space or time to bury our dead. I might be a simple ex-secretary for the men who did this, but I understand what they're after. Chaos and technology will abet our friends in this plan, and very soon, the human race could end up a dim memory."

Yes, I know. It's corny and melodramatic, but sometimes that's the only way to get through Mulder's thick skull.

"And what can I do that you can't?"

"You can use the American justice system legitimately," I reply. "They're afraid of that. If you understood how to use your power, you could throw a real monkey wrench into their plans. They've relied on you to stay stupid, and so far, you haven't disappointed."

Of course this offends him. No one can stand to hear unpleasant truths about himself now, can he?

"You really don't think much of me, do you?" he asks pathetically. "I don't buy it. Not your plague and not your pregnancy. So what are you really after, Johnny? A cheap laugh at my expense? What do you want to do?"

"What I really want to do is direct," I say solemnly. "Mulder, use your head, and I mean the lump three feet above your ass when I say that. Faking a pregnancy is absolutely pointless. You only do that when you want to marry the guy, and I don't even like using the bathroom after you."

"And the flu?" he asks. I favor him with my best "damn, you're stupid" look.

"Faking a plague is also rather insane considering my position right now. And there are much better ways to annoy you. Babies, plagues, plots-- it's all fait accompli. I could give a rat's ass about you, but I'm as vulnerable as anyone suddenly. And now there's Scully and the kid for me to think about. You could die and go to hell and I wouldn't care. But you can-- potentially-- be useful. Besides, Scully loves you. That's why I'm here, telling you this, instead of kidnapping Scully and heading for some bunker in South America."

I think I've stunned him speechless. That's actually fairly cool if I have. Mulder talks too much and rarely says anything. I get off the bed and pause, waiting for any response. There is none. He simply stares at me.

"God, I hope our kid doesn't get your nose," I snap as I walk into the bathroom and slam the door. He deserves that. He really does.

I know. You've got to be wondering how much crack I've been smoking. Mulder? Useful? I know it doesn't sound likely, but it's the truth. No scams.

See, this is the situation. About a week ago, my old friend A.J. sent me a little message. A.J. is the world's leading drug lord in alternative medicine and pharmaceuticals. He is also the richest drug lord I know. He tipped me off to "a flu" called Beijing Butterfly. He seemed mostly amused by the reference. You know the joke, don't you? My ex-bosses love that kind of humor, because they think they're The Man.

My current personal situation has put me in a bit of a bind, however. I have neither legal nor illegal protection to keep me out of trouble. In fact, I'm legally dead. The worst case scenarios have shot through my mind almost endlessly. I see a grossly pregnant me trying to blow up five or six labs, and either dying or going to prison for it. I tend to see me failing and a lot of people dying. Really cheerful thoughts, you know?

Mulder, despite his tendency to be, well, absolutely useless, can help me out. All he has to do is flounder around the Harvey-Millholland Corporation, preferably very loudly. I anonymously tip off the Post that for some reason, the FBI is checking out bio-terrorism in that particular corporation. The media, the public, and the justice system will then derail the test-drive. It's a very neat little scheme. Someone up top back home will probably piss themselves when I pull it off.

I finish my shower and dress in the outfit I left in the bathroom. I walk into the bedroom where Mulder is still lying on the bed, eyes staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

"You know, there's still a lot of time," I say softly. "The world won't end tomorrow. Not unless there's a nuclear war, and oops, there goes your retirement."

"Johnny--"

"I'm outta here," I say. "I'm going home. You don't look so good."

He sits up and focuses his eyes on me like lasers. "You'd leave? Just like that?"

I pause a moment. "I am leaving. See you."

Aware that all is changed and a terrible beauty has been engendered, I resolutely leave the apartment and slam the door. Again.

* * *

 

**Mulder:**

The door slams shut.

Three words repeat themselves over and over in my head.

Baby.

World.

Johnny.

I think I'm in shock.

The end of the world is in eight months.

She's pregnant.

The door slams shut on my sanity. I try to think coherently and fail, feeling as though the wind has been knocked out of me and I've been clubbed around the head and shoulders vigorously. Johnny's turned me to stone: my very own laughing Medusa, who whispered that she was harmless, then exposed me to her deadly beauty and left me impotent.

What am I going to tell Scully? Um, these Harvey-Millholland people need to be investigated because the world will end otherwise. Let's stop them. Okay, that's the easy part. Scully and I both know how easily a plague could start. Pink Pharmaceuticals and her own cancer proved that for us. We're willing to stop it, and I'm sure we can, but how do I explain where I got my information? Oh, yeah, Scully, I have a new informant. What does he look like? Well, she-- um, do you remember Johnny Valmont?

Or worse, I'll get Scully to stop asking questions about the informant, and then Johnny, wearing a big pink maternity shirt and leggings, will appear in our office, grinning like a shark. Then she will rip apart the tissue-delicate peace between Scully and me. And she would. I know Johnny.

Eight months. Eight months, which is two hundred and forty days, thousands of hours, all adding up to eight months. I can't think. I've turned to stone and I can't think.

With any luck, the baby and the plague will be unleashed on the world on the same day. Panic starts seething through me when I consider that statement. And time seems to be dropping away like sand in an hourglass. Eight months suddenly seems like eight minutes.

What am I going to do?

Johnny said she'd let me twist in the wind. The feeling is cheerfully reciprocated, but now there's a huge new golem in the gears. A baby. I almost can't believe that part of the story, or any of it. But Johnny's right-- there's no reason to torture me with a baby. She has much more effective options. The sociopathic nymphomaniac is having my baby. You have no idea how much this disturbs me.

Eventually, the world moves out of the slow-slow-quick-quick reverie that I'm experiencing in my shock. The phone rings and breaks the spell. I pick it up, aware that I'm completely naked and the person on the other end of the line is most likely Scully.

"Mulder."

"It's me," she says in that voice that breaks my heart and hardens my cock at the same time. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I lie. "What's going on?"

She pauses and I hear her breathing into the receiver. Johnny told me that she wants me. Is she trying to give me the message directly? Oh, God, Scully, not tonight, any other night, but tonight is just not a good time--

"Nothing," she says. "I was just wondering-- about this case. You know, the one with the--"

Either she's serious or she just lost her nerve. I don't even hear what case she's talking on and on about, and after a long silence where we both listen to each other breathe, she asks me again.

"Mulder, are you sure you're okay?"

"I-- um-- had some unsettling news," I admit.

"About what?"

I'm going to be a father. Do you want to play mommy? Oh, God. I couldn't say that. And I didn't just admit I've got bad news, did I? I did. My lips are looser than Vegas slots.

"Mulder? What happened?" she asks, concern tinging that phone-sex operator voice of hers.

"I have a new informant."

There is silence. "What's he like?"

"She's-- uh--" oh, fuck, why don't I just invite her over to watch the next time Johnny comes over? It'd be a quicker death with a lot less fumbling.

"She?" I hear her say. "Is she like the last one, whatsherface, Maria?"

"Marita. And no, this one's nothing like Marita--" she's much worse, but she gives one hell of a blowjob. She'd be your cup of tea, too--

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" she asks in a voice I can only interpret as coy.

"Um-- well-- I wasn't thinking all that much about her. She gave me some very disturbing news."

"About what?"

"About a possible end to mankind."

She's quiet. "Do you believe her?"

"I think so. She had no reason to lie to me," I say. Oh, that sounds bad and remarkably naive. Without the entire context behind me, an anonymous informant would have EVERY reason to lie to me.

"Mulder," Scully says. "If she works for them, she has every reason to lie to you."

"I know, but this one was very specific. For an informant, anyway. Have you ever heard of the Harvey-Millholland Corporation?"

Yet another pause. I'm starting to think Scully could give a god-damn about the end of the world right now. Johnny really wasn't kidding when she told me Scully wanted me. And now the old axiom "when it rains, it pours" is chasing a diapered infant and a big tombstone around in my head.

"I can't say that I have," she says in a voice that drips sarcasm. "So what's the story?"

I start to explain the entire Bangkok Butterfly Pox or whatever the living fuck it is, and Scully's unimpressed breathing doesn't help me sound intelligent. I manage to fumble the whole explanation out, and she pauses again.

"So, if the informant isn't lying to you, we have eight months to discredit the Harvey-Millholland Corporation, whom I've never heard of, and save the world from the killer flu?" she asks.

"This isn't a joke."

"Not for the world. For us, it's yet another trip around the world to end up sixpence and none the richer," she says. "Mulder, some days I just wonder--"

"What?" I ask, sealing my own doom.

"Nothing," she answers, saving my pathetic hide for yet another day of play. "I'm just a little tired. I think that maybe I need a vacation. When we have time, of course."

"We?"

"We. The X-Files. You know what I mean, right?" she says in a voice that sounds a little rushed. "So was the informant pretty?"

"Who cares if she was pretty?"

"Not me. I was just making conversation," she says. I suppress another wave of guilt. When Scully finds out exactly who my informant is, she's going to rip my head off and present it to her brother for Christmas. They'll mount it on the wall and use my nose to play horseshoes.

"Okay. Scully, I'm kind of tired," I say, trying to find an escape route out of this surreal conversation. "We can talk about this tomorrow, can't we?"

This time the pause is vaguely offended. "Yeah, Mulder, I guess we can talk about it tomorrow. So, see you then?"

"See you th--"

She hangs up on me. I stare at the phone and then very slowly, I walk to the bathroom. I am screwed. I am so screwed.

Baby. Johnny. Scully. End of the world. The four concepts swirl around my mind and make me dizzy as I shower. I can walk the metaphorical tightrope as well as anyone-- better than a lot of people, actually-- but this sudden quadruple kick to the groin has left me spinning. What am I going to do? What the bloody hell am I going to do?

I finish my shower and towel off, wishing that I could run off to Jamaica with Scully and a lot of money like a character in a John Grisham novel. But I think that no matter where I go, the spectre of the paranormal and the conspiracy will follow. So I'm stuck. And that's just great. Really.

* * *

 

**Scully:**

Oh, goddamn Mulder and his quests to the tenth generation. And goddamn the nuns at school who taught me to behave properly and made phone sex a virtual impossibility for me. I throw the phone across the room before I realize I'm acting very childish.

Sometimes I wish I were a psychologist, so I could know what kind of pathology drives a woman to be so dependent on direction from overbearing people in her life. It seems that I always live for others. First it was my father, and when I finally dared to break free of him, I fell for Jack Willis. Fortunately, that was a painful yet clean break. Then there came Mulder, and he's still running through my life like a bad case of the flu. Now I have to admit to myself that Johnny Valmont had the same sort of influence on my life. And, despite the disturbing amorality of the woman in general, she was right about some things.

For instance, she was right about Mulder and me. The more I sit in our office, watching us do the eternal pas de deux of frustrated desire, the sillier it seems. The CD player seconds that emotion.

"There's a blue light in my best friend's room-- there's a blue light in his eyes-- there's a blue light, yeah-- I want to see it shine--"

'Something's got to give' would be a nice rationale for the cold- blooded seduction I'm planning to the melancholy strains of yet another Johnny Valmont girl band. I think that you can only stress your libido for so long before it snaps.

"She's my baby, she belongs to me-- but yesterday she walked home all alone-- everybody else looks at my baby, then they want to know her name--"

I nod my head along to the hypnotic monotony of the song, planning scenarios in my head and rationalizing every fifteen minutes when one of my fantasies causes me to blush.

"I'm feeling sorry that I called you but I-- I guess that I forgot your name--" the singer cries.

Well, that would have been a better reason to call than whatever idea I had when I called Mulder. Why do earth-threatening plagues always threaten the world at the worst possible time? And why can't I take the whole killer flu idea seriously? These people are more than capable of devastating biological warfare, and here I am, pissed because I didn't get any.

I go to bed in a fairly good mood nonetheless, because after several glasses of wine and a few coital fantasies, I've finally figured out the way to get the man. I admit I'm borrowing a few techniques from the late Johnny Valmont, may she screw buck-toothed informants in Hell for eternity. This is largely because the woman knew more about sex than the Kama Sutra, and I'm not wasteful.

As I stroll into the FBI building with more false cool than Bill Clinton after a trip to Congress, I run into AD Skinner. His eyes about pop out of his head when he sees the outfit I'm wearing. But I'm following dress codes. Well, unless there's a rule requiring FBI agents to wear normal underwear.

"Good morning, sir," I say.

"Good, um, good morning, Agent Scully," he says, getting out of my way. I then take the elevator down to the basement, where Mulder is already hard at work.

"Morning, Mulder," I say. "Investigating the butterfly flu?"

"I'm trying--" and he stops, noticing the outfit. It's a silk number, deep green in color, and the blouse underneath is a little too sheer and a little too tight. Then there are the garters, but he can't see those. Yet.

I sidle in and sit down. "Anything concrete yet?"

"Not really," he says, licking his lips nervously.

"I'm sure we'll find it," I say confidently. I lean over and look at the computer screen. "So, anything else from this mysterious informant of yours?"

"I'm anxiously awaiting her next breadcrumb," he replies sardonically. "She's a real Obi-Wan Kenobi. All shadow and no substance."

I pretend to ponder this for about a second, but I'm really looking at Mulder's mouth. I take a deep breath.

"Mulder, do you have any clue why I called you last night?"

"Ummm-- to talk about a case?"

I shake my head. "Wrong answer, Mr. Mulder," I say. "Not only wrong, but deliberately wrong."

I remember to breathe. This is happening, is it ever happening. I lean in closer, and wrap my hand around the smooth silk of his tie. His eyes bulge.

"Scully?" he asks.

"Yes, that **is**  my name," I say, carefully undoing the tie and pulling it away from his body. "Do you need something?"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm having my way with you," I say, weighing the tie in my hand and then throwing it over my shoulder. "If you don't stop misbehaving, I think I'll tie you up with this."

"Misbehaving?"

"Perhaps you don't understand the situation. The posture I'm in is blatantly sexual. You have a few options. You can tell me that you're not interested. A variation on this is that you could tell me you're gay."

"What if I don't like those options?"

"Well, the option that I think would turn out best for you and for me is consensual sexual intercourse," I say in my best prissy Miss Science voice. "Do you understand the concept, Agent Mulder?"

"Very well," he says, reaching for my face. I lose my balance and tumble into his lap. I'm not at all upset by this. And after I regain equilibrium, I immediately reach for his face.

We start kissing. Kissing seems like too mild of a term. I wrap one arm around his neck, the other burrows into his hair, and our mouths tangle and clash. Our tongues tangle, crossing each other's ardently. The investigation is going very well when he pulls back.

"What?" I ask.

"Lock the door."

"Good idea," I agree, walking to the door with just enough bounce to reveal the garters.

"Scully?" Mulder asks in a weak voice. "Did I just see what I think I saw?"

"You think you see a lot of things, Mulder," I say, unbuttoning my blouse to the waist and discarding it and my jacket on the floor. "Little green men, Mexican goat-suckers, vampire pizza boys--"

"The. Garter. Belt."

"Oh, that old thing?" I ask, sounding a lot more confident than I feel. I shimmy my skirt up a little. Mulder groans.

"Shh," I say, walking back over to him and putting my hand on his mouth. "Discretion is the better part of office sex."

"Office sex--"

I wrap my arms around him and settle back in his lap. Then I start whispering in his ear.

"I want you, Mulder. Now," I whisper. "Against the filing cabinet, on the desk, you name it, I want you there."

"Are you sure?" he whispers back. Of course, he's also fumbling around with the hooks of my bra at the same time. "Scully, I don't deserve you."

"I know. It's okay. I love you."

He stares at me in wonder. "God--" he whispers. "You're killing me here."

"Good," I whisper, tickling his earlobe with my breath. "Shut up and fuck me, Mulder, before I actually do kill you."

"Such nasty words--" he murmurs before he finishes removing my bra-- "from such a--" he cups my breasts in each hand and squeezes. I arch my body but don't moan. "pretty--" he starts kissing his way from my lips to my shoulder-- "mouth."

He attacks my exposed flesh, and the chair wobbles. "Kiss your mother with it?"

I pull him up out of the chair and we're suddenly backing into the filing cabinets with undue force. I land up against the cool steel, caught in Mulder's grip.

"Not often," I admit, kissing whatever I can get. Mulder's hands are eagerly pushing my skirt up. "Oh, yes--"

"Good," he whispers, lifting me up to his level and ravenously kissing me. "It's mine now."

He grinds his body against mine, and I suddenly realize his cleaning bill will probably be outrageous after this little adventure. His hands are fire against my skin, stroking my thigh, the other just missing breast as he holds me up to his level.

"Yours," I agree, pushing against him. "Mulder--"

"The best things come to those who wait."

"Six years isn't waiting, it's procrastinating."

He eases me down again, just long enough to unbutton his pants and free his cock, which has been at attention for a while now. Then he lifts me up again and positions me just right.

"I think I'll have to agree," he says as I slide down on him. "Oh, God, oh God, I agree."

I shake my head at him. We can't make noise. As unbelievable as it feels to finally have him inside me, as much as I want to throw my head back and let him know that, we can't. We have to maintain a little sanity.

He nods and then we start to move. My resolution and my sanity start to fray. Scratch that, they were already frayed, now they're being worn down to nubs as the ache of body against body starts to build throughout every screaming nerve. Oh God, this is what I've needed for so long-- oh, God, how could I have waited so long?

"I love you," he whispers into my ear. "Scully, I--"

I can't help it. I start to whimper a little as he drives into me with all of the pent-up passion of six years. I hold on tight and feel the very beginnings of an orgasm start to tingle through me. I moan, and Mulder presses a finger against my lips. I start sucking on it as my body starts shuddering around his, and manage to keep from alerting the entire FBI what we're doing.

Mulder comes right after me, and I slide off him, dazed and delighted. He stares at me, and I almost blush.

"I need to go use the bathroom," I say, retrieving my blouse and hastily buttoning up. "I'll be right back."

I grab a kiss and my jacket as I leave. I clean up in the restroom, and then while reaching into my jacket for a lipstick, I come across my cell phone. A deliciously devilish idea crosses my mind and I pick up the phone and dial as I walk out of the bathroom and down the very deserted basement corridors.

"Mulder."

"Hey," I growl into the phone. "I missed you."

"You've been gone all of two minutes."

"Mmm-hmm," I murmur, scanning for other people. "Mulder, what are you wearing?"

"Excuse me?"

"Did I ever tell you about how this fantasy of mine goes next?" I ask. "It involves the desk and the tie and very little else--"

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

Love is a many-splendored thing, trust and honesty make good relationships, yada yada yada. Oh, and best friends make the best lovers. I've heard it all before and you know what I believe of it? Life is pain, highness. Anyone who tells you differently is selling something.

I suppose you think if I just left Mulder and Scully alone now, everything would turn out all right. It's a nice fantasy. A united, romantically involved Mulder and Scully can save the world, cure cancer, and fuck like bunnies without my dangerous ass around. Sure. There's a better chance of Alex Krycek being elected President of the United States and Old Smokey headlining with Angela Lansbury on Broadway.

The operating idea behind Mulder and Scully's romance is sexual incompatibility. Putting those two in bed together is like trying to morph a La-Z-Boy and the Energzier Bunny. Now, to their credit, the problem has not caused them to break up or get excessively bitter. But poor Scully thought her vibrator days were over, and that's definitely not the case.

Anyway. Ooh. The baby shifted or something. She's fidgety. Don't worry, I'm not turning into Mommy Valmont and I promise not to detail morning sickness for you, but it's been hellaciously odd. Bringing the kid along as I try to investigate Harvey-Millholland and live the everyday life has been a trip, for sure. We've been at it for eight weeks now, and I'm slowly but surely getting used to being Johnny-plus-kidlet.

The August heat beats against my neck as I try to hack into yet another corporate database. Mulder, bless his tedious soul, has been true to his word and investigates the Beijing Butterfly whenever he can, but FBI work has gotten in the way. The summertime apparently brings out the weirdos. Lots of babies get stolen by dingoes, people spontaneously combust, Disney produces a tapioca blockbuster animated flick, et cetera. I barely keep in touch with the G-man as he flits across the country. And my orignal notion of just tipping off the media simply won't work. Harvey-Millholland, from everything I've researched, breeds animals for science firms and universities. Apparently they're breeding up the next plague-carrying animal, but I'm not sure. I'm still looking for the people who are creating the actual pathogen.

So here I sit on a nasty, sticky August day, glued to the stinking computer. A carton of Breyer's finest Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough sits beside me in my work, and I sullenly wish I was in L.A. I want Thrifty's ice cream, god-fucking-dammit; I want Malt Chocolate Krunch and Mint-N-Chip and Chocolate Brownie. They just don't have Thrifty's here, and I'm going crazy without.

Breeding lab animals is surprisingly more complex than it seems. Well, not even lab animals; lab insects, specifically flies. It's rather dull in my opinion. More power to the fly people of the world who like and understand this stuff. But I can only get so far with a law degree and a short attention span, so I turn to other distractions.

"Hey, babe," I address the kid. "Did you see this? The Velvet Goldmine makeup collection. We can be glam websurfing women, how does that sound?"

I'm talking to the unborn. My social life has officially gone to hell in a very ruffly handbasket.

"Good," I hear myself say. "Glam and glitter it is."

The phone rings before I can ask the kid whether to use Visa or Mastercard.

"Johnny Valmont speaking," I answer.

"Mrs. Valmont? This is Pat Ryan with Dr. Cunningham's office. You'd called yesterday with a lot of questions?" a friendly woman's voice says.

"Yes, yes, but I'm Ms. Valmont."

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Well, anyhow, Dr. Cunningham is very interested in your questions and he'd be glad to set up an appointment with you. How does Thursday at one sound?"

I check my calendar. "Um-- I have a doctor's appointment. But I'll cancel."

"Are you sure, Ms. Valmont?"

"Definitely. Tell Dr. Cunningham that I'm looking forward to the meeting."

"Sure will. Bye now."

I growl as I hang up. "Well, kidlet, we have to reschedule with the OB/GYN for the nice insect pathologist. How does Friday, noonish, sound to you? I was going to get you into that Boston preschool, but they're awful snotty anyway and I don't like the weather there."

The phone rings again. "Valmont-plus here."

"Johnny? It's Hugs. Meet me at the Watergate in twenty minutes and **come alone**."

"Hugs, cut the bullshit. What's up?"

"This guy, Nicky. He and I run a little something something on the side. He says that he's got a direct line into your Beijing people that you was tellin me about. He wants to meet with you, twenty minutes, at the Watergate."

"Give me forty minutes, and we're meeting at Union Station at the joint with the great milkshakes."

"But, Johhhhhnnnnyyy--"

"Forget it, then."

"Fine. Forty minutes, Union Station."

He hangs up and I sigh. "Well, looks like we're on the road again, kidlet. At least we'll get a nice milkshake while the dumb men blather. And I promise we'll get makeup when we get home."

Idiot informants, insect virology, mediocre ice cream, no sex, and useless bureaucratic government people. Being on this side of the fence sucks. I don't even get a sexy sidekick. The one I want is playing cuddlebunnies with that jackass Mulder. Dammit.

I pull on a baseball cap and my Nikes, and then I'm out the door. A hero's work is never done, and that's why I never wanted to be a hero in the first place.

* * *

 

**Krycek:**

DC is just the way I left it: corrupt, dangerous, and ugly. Why couldn't our government be located in New Orleans or Los Angeles or somewhere that wasn't originally a swamp?

Johnny Valmont's ghost is here. I see her almost everywhere. In every movie poster, on every newscast, those green-green eyes look for me, pursue me into every corner until the only way out is a shot of the fine local h. I feel just like a local god here, when I'm with the boys. We do what we want, yeah, we do what we want and it gets us killed and bullshit like that.

I cruise up to the bad part of the hood, the place I'd never be caught dead in, the new abode of one Jeffrey Tyrone Spender. Tyrone! I don't want to think about what the old guy and Cassy the Friendly Abductee were smoking when they named him Jeffrey Tyrone. It was, after all, the sixties, although I don't see Old Smokey wearing tie-dye and giving peace a chance. Cassandra maybe.

The doorframe is loose. Someone has obviously had fun with Spender, someone other than me. I'll be hella pissed if I got beat to the chase. Jeff-Boy killed my bitch, and I am the one who has the sweet and exquisite right to kill his ass.

I kick the door in, and thank God, the little bastard lives and breathes. Not for much longer, of course, but I'm killing him because it's my right and privilege. Even if Johnny was the whore of Babylon, a harpy, and not worth the trouble.

"Oh, God," Spender gasps, staring at me with big eyes. "Why are you here?"

"Vengeance is a bitch," I reply, aiming my gun at his forehead.

"Vengeance? What the hell did I do to you?"

"You killed my lover. That means that I have the right to kill you. By the way, I'm also going to enjoy it. You're shit, Jeff-Boy. Hell, you probably couldn't even manage to be an effective chauffeur for these people. And now, I'm going to make you a spot on the wall."

Spender looks up at me, but he doesn't look sad or accepting or panicked. He looks... confused.

"Who exactly did I kill?"

That's not funny. That's not funny at all, so I pistol-slap him across the knuckles. He squeals like a woman.

"You've killed so many people you forgot about Johnny, motherfucker?" I ask quietly, aiming the gun at his head again. "I can tell you've been such a badass since the last time I saw you. Did you buy that Cap'n Crunch yourself?"

"Johnny's not dead."

I slug him across the face with the gun this time. He shrieks. "I saw her down, Jeff-Boy! You can't lie to me, bitch. I know what you did to her. It wasn't an accident, and neither is this--"

"She's not dead! She's really really not dead! Listen to me! I don't know what the hell's going on either," he gasps, staring at the gun. "About three months ago, oh my God, it was-- she shows up and she's looking like the dead."

"Talk faster because I don't buy your shit," I hiss, getting close enough to stare him down. "She's dead."

"She's not. I don't know how, man, but she just showed up at my apartment, scared the crap out of me, and I haven't seen her since. But I heard from guys. She's alive."

Yeah, and where did Spender get to know guys? Spender scares guys.

"Spender, right now you'd offer to suck me if you thought it would save your life. Why don't you pray to God and get ready to die?"

"Because Johnny Valmont isn't dead! I didn't kill your girlfriend! I heard she switched sides. She's working for the long arm of the law."

Sure, I'll believe that. The dead have come back and now they work for the feds. Next he'll be telling me Elvis is his roommate.

"You are so full of shit."

"You know she could," Jeff says. "You know she would do something like that, if she were alive. She'd laugh at us just like she did to me."

I lower the gun and move away from Spender. "If you're fucking lying to me, Jeff-Boy, I am coming back here and ripping your balls off. And you know what? I'm still going to kill you. You're still a pansy-ass. My God, you couldn't even kill a woman?"

"Last I heard, you were that woman's bitch."

This earns Jeffrey Spender a bullet wound in the thigh. He screams at the top of his lungs. I laugh.

"Yeah, I might have been a bitch, but things have changed. Don't you believe in change, Jeffrey? Change is good," I say, and shoot the wall right above his head. He winces away from the plaster and debris that flutters down and dusts his dirty, lice-ridden hair.

"So are you going to kill her?"

"You mean the way you couldn't? You mean the way you didn't have the balls to blow her fucking head off when she was wandering around with her head up her ass? Fuck yeah. She's dead. But you see, with you, I just want you dead. Johnny Valmont--" and I cock my gun again-- "She's going to suffer the way she made me suffer."

Spender almost laughs, and I don't see what's so funny about his dumb ass being emasculated and stupid. There's nothing funny about Johnny being alive, either. People are going to have to die. And watching her suffer won't be the fun he thinks it is.

"What's so funny, bitch?"

"Nothing. Could you let me call 911 or something now?"

"Oh, yeah. Whatever. You bust me, I'll smother you with a bedpan," I warn as I cruise on out of the apartment and the ghetto.

She's fucking alive and she didn't tell me. I don't know which one is worse. God in Graceland, she's going to pay. Then she's going to pay some more. Then when she's out of credit, I'm going to put her into debt. And when I finally have carved up her entire body and soul, I may let her die.

Alive. For all this time. I can't fucking believe it. I should go back and kill Spender for lying, but for some reason I know it's true. She's alive, and it's throbbing through my veins like a bad trip. Speaking of veins, my favorite one is shot, and in only six months. Drug addiction is a big whore. Worse than a whore. Not worse than Johnny, but is it possible to be worse than Johnny?

Not in my book. Alive and she didn't tell me. I had a right to know. She lied to me again and she got me here. I can't stress enough how I'm going to take these six months out of her. I'll steal a page from her book and start with some serious mindfucking. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, you don't fuck with me. Not Alex Krycek. There are just limits and boundaries and you, my dear, beautiful darling, have broken one too many.

I consider going back and killing Spender but I figure the cops are already there. Later. After Johnny goes marching straight to hell, hurrah, hurrah, then I will blow the little shit's brains out. I just have to take this one step at a time, and the first step is to go score some heroin.

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

Cruelty, like aesthetics, can be a life philosophy. I don't find either on their own very attractive. You see, I've always liked art, and I've always liked cruelty, but it's when you blend them together with that absolute disregard for the future I manage to cultivate so well, that's when you get perfection on this earth.

It's already pale September, and I really am wearing time like a dress. It barely covers me and it'll slip off and away so easily. It occurs to me that the baby could very well be born on the one-year anniversary of my death. The thought tickles my fancy, except that if I don't break these Harvey-Millholland people soon, the kid is not going to want to be born.

Sitting around and researching is killing me. I have built up this incredible boredom and that has never been a wise thing. Because the ideas start to flit and flicker across my glazed-doughnut of a brain and then I do things that sane and decent people could never imagine.

I miss Scully and I am indeed very bored. Imagine where that's going to lead. If you said to her apartment, then you deserve a prize for being not brain dead. I go in, pour myself a glass of wine, and sit on the couch. Obviously, she's not home yet. But the desperate fear I have of boredom has driven my mind into its cruelest and darkest corners.

Just wait and see. I drink three glasses of milk and go through my CDs while I think and plot and pray. Good God damn, I've missed my collection. Eleven years of carefully chosen and much beloved music, and there are some things here that just can't be replaced-- like this Y Kant Tori Read disc.

Scully is probably on her way home from Mulder's. I sent him off to Philadelphia to talk to Dr. Cunningham for the weekend, although originally that had nothing to do with my current plans. Mulder has this unconscious luck that sends clues and informants hurtling towards him (perhaps it's just sex appeal), and I hope he gets further than I have. Tick tick tick, you know?

With the click of key into lock, I settle back into my position on the couch. Oh, I'm wrong. Scully was on her way home from the grocery store, because she drops a bag when she sees me.

"Hi, honey, I'm home," I say lamely.

"I knew it."

"You did?" I ask. "How did you know?"

"I don't know. I just knew," she says. Her eyes narrow. "You're not just here for the CD collection, are you?"

"You haven't seen me since March and you think I came back for the CDs?"

"What else would you come back for?" she asks. "Seeing as it was beyond your control when you left me high and dry back in March. You're not back to apologize, are you?"

"No," I reply. "I never apologize."

"Then get your stuff and get out."

I smile. "Aren't you the least bit curious about how I'm not dead?"

"I assumed you faked it," she replies. "You're very good at that."

"Very true. This time, though, I went for the genuine. Change is good," I say. "I don't know how or why they brought me back. But I'm here, and you're here. And we should talk."

She picks up the groceries and storms into the kitchen. "No, we shouldn't."

Is it possible that she's noticed the pregnancy? Is she upset about that? Or does she know I'm Mulder's informant? Oh, damn this woman, she never gives me enough information to work with.

"Well, what about the Beijing Butterfly flu? We could talk about that," I say, wandering into the kitchen behind her.

"What the hell do you know about that?"

"I know I tipped Mulder off about it."

If there were any eggs not broken in the carton, they are now smashed. "You're the informant?"

"Yeah. Didn't he tell you?"

"Mulder? Tell me anything about an informant?"

I laugh. "All right. So maybe I knew that. But we do have things we should discuss. I don't want the end of the world any more than you do."

"Really? Aren't you working for the Consortium?"

"They fired me," I reply. "Insubordination or something. Scully, I've reformed. I admit it's not for any humanitarian reasons, but I'm working for your side now. You have to trust me."

She finishes putting away the groceries and walks over to me. Her blue eyes bore into mine.

"Trust you? The last time I was that naive, I was left naked on a bed. I think your words to me on it were that I was behaving childishly. Forgive me if I'm behaving so again."

"Then don't trust me," I reply. "I still have business with you."

"I don't have any with you," she replies, pushing past me and sitting down on her couch.

"Like hell you don't," I say. "Why are you still so upset with me about leaving you? You've got Mulder now, isn't that enough?"

"It is. Good-bye, Johnny."

"Not good-bye," I say, sitting in the chair opposite the couch. "No, I think your problem is that you just can't shake yourself loose of desire. What you really want makes you angry."

She stares at me with contempt. "And what is it that I want?"

"Me, of course."

The game is afoot. It's called seduction, and I smile as I sit down at the opposite end of the couch. Cruelty, aesthetics, and purpose all merged into one goal-- I like it, and you know why? Because I always win.

She sniffs. "You're so full of yourself, Johnny."

"Very, very true," I say, staring into her eyes. I give her a lecherous once-over. There's no finesse to it-- I'm examining a slab of meat. "I sent Mulder off to Philadelphia. Are you wondering if I did it on purpose? Because, actually, it was just a fortunate coincidence," I murmur.

"Sure, right."

"Believe what you want. I'm telling the truth about everything tonight."

"So I want you and Mulder's gone because of coincidence."

I push off the couch and move behind her. Then I kneel and bend my mouth close to her ear. No touching. This is to be done without touching.

"Is that a hint of skepticism I hear?"

"Yes. Now leave."

"I don't think so," I whisper, the tickle of breath sending a shudder through her body. "You see, I have every intention of seducing you. I want to watch you battle a million demons and lose. Because I think I'm going to win, no matter if I lay a single finger on you tonight or not. You see, everything in you is screaming no, except one little voice that has you pinned to the spot. And so, you want me in spite of yourself."

"You're presuming an awful lot," she says.

I stand up and move back to the foot of the couch, where I sit and stare at her. "I know you too well to presume. You're wondering where the first blow will fall. Will I kiss you? Will you feel my lips pressed against yours, rubbing against you with abandon? Or do I start with a touch? And where would I touch you?"

She glares at me, stony-eyed, and crosses her legs.

"Johnny, I am asking you to leave now."

"Oh, are you?" I ask lightly. "Don't worry. I won't touch you now. But that's not what you're after. I've won already. You want it. That little voice is trying to help you find a good excuse. Look at you. You have everything-- life, love, a purpose, a true love, and you're writhing because you can't let me go."

She presses her legs together closer. Her eyes are so blue I can't name the tint.

"I don't want you and your entire little tirade is revolting."

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," I murmur. "I'm mad, bad, and dangerous to know. If I just kiss you, you can tell yourself it was just too much, you were lost in the heat of the moment. If you're lucky, maybe I'll go nympho and screw you silly."

I stand up and go back to watching her behind the head of the couch.

"There's going to be no mercy. I want you to shatter and come undone without even a kiss. You stole my control, you understand. I'm reduced to this thing who wants you."

"I didn't--"

"I know. Poor thing. I won't lie. I could live without you, but I don't want to. I want to feel your skin underneath mine. I want you very badly."

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

The tension evident in her body is incredible. Either she's going to shoot me or she's going to fuck me very soon.

"How many lies does it take to maintain your dignity? You'd like it if I kissed you first. You want it, as always."

"I don't want you," she says, holding herself close.

"Then call the police. I'll get the phone."

I sit down on her chair again, leaving my legs to fall shamelessly open.

"Damn you."

I laugh and close my eyes. "Very eloquent."

"Are you going to just sit there? I want you. All right? You've pushed me, and there, it's true."

"You're the one who gets to act. I'm just going to react," I reply, eyes closed.

There's a long silence. "I--"

"I told you I didn't have to lay a finger on you tonight."

* * *

 

**Scully:**

I don't think I can do this. I really don't. Every nerve in my body is screaming, and I've got my thighs clamped together so hard I could crush glass, but I can't cross the five foot gap between me and the object of my insane desires.

Call Mulder, I tell myself over and over. Get her out of the apartment. You're never going to forgive yourself if you give into this raving lunatic. She just wants an ego boost.

Her lips are wet. She keeps licking them with the tip of her tongue, and I want to make her stop doing that. It's annoying. I have to move. I need to tell her to leave. She'll do it now. I force myself to get up and walk over to the chair.

"Johnny--"

"Yes, honey?"

Her tongue flickers out again, turning those rose-pink lips redder and softer. She looks so relaxed. I notice she's wearing gold glitter polish as my hand escapes my control and touches her cheek. She rubs against my hand, and the texture of her skin against mine loosens another control stricture.

Those lips. It would be a sin not to kiss them. They're as beautiful as Mulder's lips. And waiting six years to kiss Mulder was a sin, and before I can stop myself again I bend down and kiss her. She kisses back and the smell of her, lip gloss and spicy perfume and heated arousal sends a fatal desire into my limbs. I am going to make love to this woman because I want to, not because I love her, definitely not because it's a good idea (in fact, I think I've lost my mind), but because I want to.

I kiss her again, settling into her lap. Her eyes flutter open and they're glittering green.

"Tell me, little lady," she murmurs into my ear as she slips both hands under my shirt to unhook my bra. "Would you like something from me?"

"Make love to me."

"The sweetest request known to humankind," Johnny replies as she pulls open my blouse. She tears it, and I feel exposed and my last vestiges of regret and modesty send a blush through my face. "Could we get out of this chair?"

"Yes," I say, standing up. "I--"

But I don't want to talk any more. We go into the bedroom, and another shiver of doubt runs through me. But then Johnny is lying down on the bed, lackadaisically taking off her shirt. I hate her. I won't have this. Oh, no. I pull her shirt off violently and stare. No wonder she was wearing that baggy sweatshirt. Her stomach curves-- just a little, but Johnny Valmont is-- pregnant? The entire world has gone mad, and here I was, ready to vouch there was nothing new under the sun.

"It doesn't matter," she says. "Not right now."

She reaches up and pulls me into her arms, kissing me again, and the feel of her burning skin against mine is what I wanted, the feel of her trying to push me into the bed. But I won't. She wanted me to lose control; I've lost it. I moan as I start to run feather-light touches over her breasts, tracing spiral paths into the nipples.

"Not now. Are you proud of yourself? You win."

"That's a relative term," she whispers, arching her back as I apply my mouth to her neck and start biting, kissing the skin, all the while rubbing her breasts. She moans, and I'm glad. I start kissing further, examining her skin, which is glowing with perspiration.

"You're so beautiful," I say, finding her breasts with my lip and sucking. The sound she makes erases time. There is only right now and there is only her. I start licking the rosy tips of her nipples eagerly. Johnny had her goals and I have mine.

"Oh--"

I skim her stomach, although the erotic curve of it sends a shudder of desire through my lower body. I run worshipful hands over it as my fingers find the top button of her jeans and unlatch them.

She moans as I move away from her moist, willing body and undo her jeans, pulling them away from her body and leaving only the panties. I leave her to wait as I remove all the rest of my clothing. I move to her foot and start rubbing it.

"Ohhhhhhhhh--"

"You like that? Am I surprising you, taking your little lesson to heart? You're soaking wet, Johnny. Where's your control?"

She stares at me with emerald eyes. "I--"

"Exactly," I say, rubbing my way up her legs, pushing her legs wide open and her knees up. I start stroking her thighs. "It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt."

I push her legs further apart and lower my head. She jerks up against me.

"God, I need this--" she hisses. "Oh, please now-- please, right there, oh lick me there--"

Subtlety has never been Johnny's strong suite. I rub up against the damp rose of her sex and she buries her gold glitter nails into my shoulders and begins to rock against me rhythmically.

"Oh, babe, yeah, oh you feel so good-- I've missed you so much," she croons, clawing into my skin.

I press into her harder, tonguing her deep and causing her to thrust frantically.

"Oh, yeah! Yeah! I can't-- I'm gonna come hard-- oh, God, right fucking there--"

She comes, a hard, fast set of spasms that melt her spine and soak my face. I pull away from her, leaving a kiss on her thigh and one on her lips. Then I go wash my face and look at my mussed hair.

Johnny is waiting for me when I return. Her eyes are glowing horrifically, and her expression promises trouble for me. The curve of her body is still damn sexy. I walk toward her, almost hypnotized by the glow of her eyes.

"Pride is a mortal sin," she murmurs, patting a spot next to her. I sit down. "I'll be damned if I let my favorite lover sin."

I don't get it until she pulls my wrists in front of me, picking up scarves from a small pile next to her. Roughly, she binds each wrist, and uses a third to yoke them together. I obediently sit still (obedient! God damn this woman!) as she examines me closely. Finally, she forces my chin up with her thumb.

"I wish I could be kind to you," she murmurs, eyes glowing. "But it's simply beyond my control."

She yanks my wrists over my head and pulls me back against the headboard. With a smooth, sinuous movement, Johnny has me between sitting and lying on my back. The pillows have me propped up obscenely.

"My grandfather and I met in an art museum. We were looking at Matisse odalisques. They were fairly disturbing pictures, now that I think of it. Those languorous women reclined against the couch, so that the art viewer was possessing the model while invading her privacy-- a victim of the gaze," she muses. "A display of male power."

Her hand caresses my cheek. "Power is the ultimate turn-on," she whispers. She presses one finger against my mouth. Then she gets off the bed and stares down at me with a practiced eye. Then she walks over, gets a chair, and pulls it next to the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking," she says, leaning forward and running her hands over my hair and face. "It's a pleasure."

She moves her hands downward, down my neck and chest until she reaches my breasts. She cups them speculatively. "Very, very nice," Johnny murmurs, moving off the chair and onto the bed. "You always did take care of yourself."

All of the sudden, she straddles my body with hers, wet against my stomach. Her fingers twist my nipples and it hurts. I shriek.

"Be quiet," she replies, swooping down and kissing my neck. She starts sucking hard, painfully hard. I twist against the pain, and the familiar throb of delight drives me further into the nightmare. "Very good."

"I hate you."

"I'm so glad for you," she says, clenching her thighs around me tightly for a moment, then sliding down my body. I whimper helplessly. She releases my nipples and moves her hands to my stomach, tracing patterns while she grinds against me. Then she swoops down and her mouth is between my breasts, nipping until she's found the right spot and is suckling ruthlessly. I shriek and arch up.

"Again with the noise!" she says, sitting back. "I think it's time you learned I mean what I say, dammit."

She slides off me and shoves my knees up and apart. "If you make one noise, I promise I'll hurt you bad. Behave, and you'll get off. Understand?"

I nod, trying to remember where I keep my gun. She's not getting away with this. Then I remember she's pregnant. Dammit. It's a better defense than glasses on a second-grader.

"I've never understood why people lie about power so much," she murmurs, caressing my thighs carefully. "It makes everything move."

Her caressing gets rougher, and I writhe against it. I hate Johnny, but right now I'd do anything if she'd just fuck me hard. Her fingers scratch and smooth further and further up my thighs, and I can't see her face. It's obscured by her blonde hair, which hovers around her face like angel wings.

Angels don't run their fingers over your clit and wait to see if you'll moan. I have to move my approval as she finally-- finally-- gets to the right spot and begins to rub up and down. I push as hard as I can, fighting against the scarves. Finally she pushes three fingers inside of me while her thumb is playing arpeggios on my clit, and I want to explode. It feels so good, it's too much, it's--

I can't make a sound, and I find myself doing something I've never done before. I bite my lips tight and I keep forgetting to breathe. It's the final triumph of my demon lover. As Johnny moves in and out, faster and harder and more painfully (oh God, it feels too good!) I stop breathing to my own horror. My head starts to get light and dizzy and my whole body starts aching and when the first orgasm rips through me, it's so hard and so good I can't see straight and Johnny keeps going. Oh my God.

Oh, my God. I keep pushing against her and she keeps going, lowering her head to my stomach and licking and purring against it. I'm going to hell and I'm losing my mind and I can't think any more and--

I scream, I finally do, after the third time. She pulls away from me. "Finally," she says with almost relief.

"You said not to make noise."

"I know. I changed my mind."

"You didn't tell me that."

"I know. I do that," she says conversationally. "I'll be going now. After I untie you, of course."

"Oh, no," I say, despite the fact I'm tied to my headboard. "We're going to talk. And I think that Mulder needs to be here, too."

"Talk about what?"

"The plague **and** the baby. I'm tired of being left in the dark. I'm not your toy. I've got a goddamn right to know about what's going on here."

"Can we wait until morning?" Johnny asks. "I'm tired. Hormonal changes and stuff, and I don't want to drive home. Could I stay here?"

"You have some nerve, asking me that," I say.

"Can I?" she asks, removing the scarves. I stare at her.

"I suppose," I say. "But go sleep on the couch. I can't deal with you any more tonight."

"Pride goeth before a fall," she quotes pithily. "Clean yourself up, honey. I'm zoned. I'm going right to sleep."

I really do like being used, I think as I walk to the bathroom. That's the only explanation for letting Johnny Valmont sleep on my couch, pregnant with what is very likely my partner's child. The concept is horrific, but entirely plausible. She's walked right back into my life and turned it into a three-ring spectacle within hours.

And of course, I end up sleeping on the couch, because Johnny is passed out cold across the bed when I get back from the shower. Dammit.

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

Life is so unkind. I wake up, throw up, and realize that I've got to make a coherent narrative of my entire return to the two people I least wanted to narrate to. Shit. The entire experience has this it's-a- cruel-world-let's-throw-ourselves-in-the-abyss type ambience. Except that I've had fun in the process.

"Good morning, Johnny," Scully says as she pushes past me into the bathroom. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

It actually is a beautiful day, with the light streaming through the gossamer curtains. I'm stunned to realize I fell asleep on Scully's bed. Those hormones end up doing funky shit to the body, I tell you. But I know what's on my lover's mind and it isn't a quickie in the shower.

"When's Mulder coming?" I ask, yawning and stretching.

"Twenty minutes," she replies icily. "Why don't you take a shower?"

"Thanks, Mom," I snap. "I was just on my way. But aren't you using it right now?"

"I'll be just a minute. By the way, I got all of your CDs out of the player. You can have them back."

Maybe I should throw myself in the abyss. It's all too petty and stupid. All of the sudden, I feel like I'm back in high school, or in bed with Krycek again. Fighting, bitching, fucking, trying to get somewhere beyond the everyday, and where do I end up every time? The shower. I never quite get where I'm going, and then the coach sends me to the showers.

But what fun would that be? Everything's temporary, and tomorrow brings a new challenge every time. I perk up a little and borrow Scully's Pantene.

"I have some of your clothes, too," Scully calls while I'm rinsing out the shampoo. "They'll be on the bed."

"Thank you," I carol back.

The door slams. I finish my shower quickly, towel off, and find one of my suits on the bed. It's a little too tight around the stomach. Fuck me twice. I haven't gained that much weight yet, have I?

So it's in a suit and wet hair that I go out to face the day, as well as two very attractive and half-insane people sitting on a couch, glaring at me. Mulder can evidently ignore the speed of light when he needs to get somewhere. They look extremely good together, she in her flowing blue silk dressing gown, and he in jeans and a black cotton tee. Good God *damn*, this was the threesome I should have arranged.

Maybe later.

"Good morning, kids," I say with a bright and completely false smile. "How are we this fine morning?"

Mulder shoots me a dirty look. I suppose he's just a little upset because now Scully knows exactly how much of a jackass he really is. But what the hell is wrong with him? He likes keeping secrets too much. Scully's infertility, his informants-- it's time he got a nice dose of telling the truth to everyone. I sit down comfortably on the chair I used last night.

"Where did you find out about the plague?" Mulder asks, skillfully skirting the fourth person in our trio. I shrug.

"A friend. A guy named AJ. He's nobody, really, but I trust him," I reply. "Mulder, how did you get back from Philly so fast? Lear jet?"

"No, I used a transporter," he sneers. "Scully called me very late last night, Johnny."

"And did she tell you everything?"

"Yes I did," Scully replies. "But that's not really your business, is it?"

I shrug. "Depends. Did you ask him about the entire baby thing? Was it a good fight?" I ask. "I mean, sure, you and I have great sex, but at least you told him immediately this time. Mulder and I had four beautiful weeks and you never would have known if it weren't for me."

"Shut up, Johnny," Mulder says.

For some reason, the old joke "shut doesn't go up and neither do I" chases through my brain, but Mulder inspires that sort of juvenile behavior in others. And I'm simply confused and slightly tired. The end of the world is one of those times when you put aside differences, unless, of course, you actually want to die. Which could be Mulder's problem, the closet suicide case.

"What do you two want from me? Are we going to fight like hillbillies on Jerry or are we going to try to prevent the end of the world? We've all made some mistakes here, but dammit, it's a plague. I promise right after we stop this, we can all have a knock-down drag-out fight, but first--"

"I have questions I want answered. Like where the hell you've been for over six months," Scully says. "Why don't we start with that, Johnny, and maybe then we can get to your supposed plague."

People are extremely petty sometimes, you know that? I mean, damn, I wasn't in the hero business for any altruistic reason. They should realize that I want to save the world mostly because I like the world. The world has Nordstrom's, cable, Harrison Ford, and Prada. There's also ice cream. I wouldn't want that to end, so obviously I'm on the side of preventing Armageddon. Doesn't it sound simple to you? But no, they just want to bitch at me because they have to think about the apocalypse again instead of chasing Albanian sludge monsters like they'd prefer.

"Okay, okay-- I died. I came back. I got a lot of surgery. Maybe they shoved a chip under my neck-- I doubt it, but it is possible. I sat in a hospital room for three months healing. Lots of bruises. Lots of pain. I watched a lot of daytime television, eventually got permission to spy on you guys. Did that. It was boring. Y'all weren't having sex," I say.

"So you got out of the hospital in June. What then?" Mulder asks.

"I came back here. Rented a joint in Chevy Chase," I say. "Pulled a few pranks. Scared the shit out of Jeffrey Spender."

I pause. "I feel fourteen right now," I say, staring at them. "Why don't you work out your guilt some other time? I'm doing my best to save the world, how about you?"

"Where did you get the baby?" Scully asks. Or maybe I'm hallucinating because damn, that's a dumb question.

"Wal-Mart," I reply. "I think it's Mulder's over yonder. Or didn't you already know that?"

Scully rolls her eyes at me. Apparently Mulder and Scully like playing good cop, bad cop.

"You think?" Mulder asks. "What do you mean, you think?"

"Look, this isn't Jerry Springer. I've had fun, I'm sorry if you didn't. Now I'm going home, and I'm going to get some sleep. Then I'm going to think up new tactics to stop this plague."

"Who else?" Scully asks inexorably.

I sigh. "AD Skinner. It was an accidental one night stand. Well, not accidental in the sense that I didn't seduce him," I say. "Once. While I was on the pill. Look. What else am I going to tell you?"

Big blue eyes meet mine. "You could try to explain why."

I shrug. The air around us is thick with anger and disappointment. "Why what?" I ask lightly.

"Why you ever bothered to come back here," she says. "It's fairly obvious this has nothing to do with saving the world. That just fell into your lap at a convenient moment."

That's true enough. But this is ludicrous. We've got much more important things to take care of. The kid's paternity is low on my priority list.

"There's no why, Scully. I did what I felt like doing. Why did you have sex with me last night? Why did Jeffrey Spender push boxes at me instead of shooting? Do I look like a psychic psychologist to you?" I stand up, ignoring the protests of the kid and Mulder and Scully. "I will talk to you two later, maybe when you're over your good cop, bad cop thing."

I gather the CD collection-- hey, it's mine, dammit-- pointedly ignore Mulder and Scully, who remain on the couch like a set of matched salt and pepper shakers, grab my comfortable clothes and leave. With all this shit in my hands, I don't get to slam the door. Damn. That's my trademark move.

I drive home, my head starting to ache from all the problems surrounding me. Life was ever-so-much easier when I had a direct, simple, and immediate goal. Now I have five or six, and they're all delayed gratification or altruistic. That's severely not my style. And I'm still horny and I don't have anyone to play with.

Sulking, I take the four flights of stairs up to my apartment and unlock the door. I throw the clothes to the floor, and then I realize I'm not alone in my apartment. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I am stupid beyond belief.

"Well, look whose bitch ass managed to get home finally," Krycek says from the couch. He looks almost obscenely relaxed, but the look in his eyes is feral and absolutely out of his mind. Oh, wonderful. Things weren't bad enough and now Alex finds out I'm alive and well. But I can't show fear now. I frantically try to remember where I've put my weapons and start to play for time.

"Fuck me gently with a chainsaw," I reply with a drawl. "What are you doing here?"

He laughs, and the sound makes my stomach turn over and do flip-flops.

"I'm here to kill you, Johnny. But that chainsaw bit-- it sounds sexy," he replies. "Don't you think?"

God, this is only going to get worse. Another set of butterflies flutters through my nerves when I realize he's got a gun sitting in his lap. I steel myself. There's only one way to stay alive. I cannot show fear.

* * *

 

**Krycek:**

I've been waiting for this moment for a while now, and it's not quite what I expected. Johnny went blonde on me, the little slut. The image is all wrong for her. Johnny should not be blonde, dammit. And her breasts are bigger than ever. She's looking very nice, nonetheless. Except that trim blue suit could use a little adjustment. It looks tight for some reason.

"I'm tired. I'm going to bed," she snaps. "We can do this vengeance bullshit some other time, okay?"

She's still damn sexy for the devil herself. I aim my gun at her heart. But there's no response, and then she starts to walk towards her bedroom. I cock the gun.

"I don't think so, Ms. Valmont. Sit your ass down," I say, gesturing with the gun.

"So what exactly do you want?" Johnny asks, sitting down carefully and eyeing me closely.

"I think you know, Johnny."

Her eyes glitter dangerously, and she stands up again. "No. I don't. And furthermore, I could give a fuck-all about it. Go away, Alex."

"I am here to kill you. Do you have time for that?" I ask, waving the gun around, but always in her direction. She shies away from it and eyes me again.

"Apparently so. Why do you want to kill me, Krycek? Wasn't I already dead? Isn't that enough for you?" she asks. A fine edge of irritation robs her of the usual smug superiority.

"Do you know what your death did to me?" I ask. She sighs. And I stare at her stomach. "My life has been turned upside down and it's all your fault. You died! You fucking whore! I'm nobody now, I'm some stupid half-bit drug whore who's got God knows what from a thousand needles and gayboys and all because you drove me insane! You! And you weren't even dead!"

Her face twists. "Okay, asshole-- what exactly was I supposed to do? Send you a singing telegram? I didn't even know I was alive until you'd broken like a cheap record! And, excuse me, excuse me, but didn't you arrange for Jeffrey Spender to maim me? Get the hell out of here, Krycek, before I kill you myself. I've meant to, anyway."

I sneer at her and stand up.

"Do it. If you think you can do it, kill me."

"It would be bad for the kid," she replies, clapping a hand over her mouth suddenly.

Kid? I stare at her. She stares back, and I realize I've gotten myself into a final standoff with my ex-bitch. The weight gain makes sense now. The bitch is pregnant. Johnny still looks so calm and collected. As usual, she could care less about the world as long as Johnny Valmont gets what she wants.

"What kid?" I ask slowly. If that candy-ass Mulder is the father, I'm going to kill him, too. Hell, why don't I just clean house? Get everyone out of my way-- Spender, Mulder, Scully, too. But let's start with Johnny.

"My kid," she says. "Get the hell out of here, Alex. I mean it. I meant to kill you anyway. So leave or die."

"Excuse me, Johnny? I have the gun," I say. I've had about enough of this. I didn't come here to talk. I came here to blow her head off and now is definitely the time. I cross the gap between us in two strides. Fuck this one-armed bullshit, I use my weight to slam her up against the wall. Pinned there, I put the steel muzzle against her temple. "Hey, babe. Any last words?"

"Fuck you," she replies, pushing me back and making a grab at the gun. She gets her hand on my one good arm and we start tumbling across the room, her cute little skirt riding up and our impromptu waltz leading us down her hall. I get a little turned on. Hell, I get a lot turned on.

"I didn't hear that. Was that a request?" I ask.

"No," she growls, pulling with all her strength on my arm, trying to get the gun away from me. We lose our footing and suddenly I'm on top of her. She's still trying to get her hands on my gun and out from under me.

"Not one final fuck before you go to the big whorehouse in the sky?" I continue.

Then she screams, a girly scream, too. I wasn't expecting that. She knees me in the groin and we start to brawl again, rolling over and getting extremely mussed in the meanwhile.

"Get off me, you bastard!" she shrieks, her eyes wide and wild. She's flushed, she's beautiful, and God, I want her. "I swear to God you're going to die."

"I thought you didn't believe in God, Johnny," I hiss, trying to get in one good blow to the head. "Except when you're getting off."

She screams again at the top of her lungs, and I desperately need to shut her up. The gun is stuck between us, and my knee is between her legs, and she still won't let go and accept that Johnny Valmont has finally lost. Desperation looks good on her. It makes her hard as nails, the way I always loved her best. I'm doing a good thing here. Johnny's finally got herself together for the last moments of her life. She'll go down proud.

"Just give it up, Johnny," I hiss.

"Not a chance," she replies, trapped and determined to go down fighting. I'm proud of her. I'm glad she's like this. I almost love her again. There's no way I'm letting go of this moment. I pull against the gun again, and she won't let go. But it was a bad moment to hold on, because then the gun goes off--

* * *

 

**Skinner:**

The phone call comes at eleven-thirty on a Saturday morning, right as I'm on my way out the door to go and work out.

"Sir?" It's Agent Mulder. Of course. Most FBI agents don't know how to reach an assistant director at home. Most of them don't want to, but Mulder is special that way.

"This better be good, Mulder."

"Sir--" and I hear the hum of traffic behind him. "Agent Scully and I need you to meet us in Chevy Chase."

"Why?" I ask.

"It's extremely important," Mulder says over the din. "An informant of ours-- a woman you're familiar with-- called in a panic about fifteen minutes ago. She's our only connection to a possible biological Armageddon in the works. And--"

I groan. Saturday morning is no time for inter-office politics.

"Let me guess, she works for them?"

"She did, sir," Mulder agrees. "But now she doesn't. Sir, the informant is Johnny Valmont."

Fucking Mulder. He loves being coy. "Where, Mulder?"

"Where what?"

"Where do I meet you? Should I bring anything?"

He gives me an address and when he finally hangs up, I swear. Biological plague, my ass. It's probably the truth, but there's something else. For Mulder, informants are Kleenex: as long as there's a new one waiting, the old one deserves to be wadded up and tossed out. So that means Johnny fucked with Mulder-- okay, Johnny probably plain old fucked Mulder-- and he can't let it die.

I hope Johnny is discreet, I think as I strip out of my warm-ups and into a pair of slacks and a sweater. I don't need her to tell agents under my direction just how thoroughly I got to know her. And this had better be important, I think to myself as I head for Chevy Chase. It's a Saturday.

Mulder and Scully are arguing with each other in front of a nice brownstone building when I arrive. They both look tired and unprofessional.

"I can't believe you fucked her! And after last time--"

"At least I only made ONE mistake, Mulder. What are we going to do about--"

They both freeze when they see me standing there. It appears that Johnny Valmont has been extremely busy since I last saw her. I'm not surprised. She likes them, apparently. Or maybe they're just catnip to her. Either way--

"Good afternoon, I say conversationally. "What's the emergency?"

"It's upstairs, sir," Scully says. She looks upset, and I wonder whether it's because of her conversation with Mulder or what's upstairs. And what the hell are they doing standing outside of the building like this?

"So why don't we go up there?" I ask.

"We've been. We're going to have to call DCPD," Mulder says.

"Have either of you called yet?"

They both look down again. "Did either of you bother to attend the FBI academy?" I ask acidly. Scully grimaces and whips out her cell phone. She dials as we walk inside.

"This is Special Agent Dana Scully with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. My badge number is JTT--" she says. "I need to report a possible homicide at 3709 Amesley Way. The victim is a white male, early thirties--"

"What?" I hiss at Mulder as we cross the lobby.

"We think it was self-defense, sir. Except for the post-mortem wound."

"You THINK?"

"Johnny's gone, sir," Mulder explains as we reach the elevators. "She just took off."

Scully finishes with her call just as the elevator doors shuffle open. "They're on their way," she says. "Sir-- um-- were you aware that Johanna Valmont is pregnant?"

My head jerks up. So this is why I had to be called. I don't know what's more disturbing, a pregnant Johnny or the fact the two of them apparently know about my indiscretion with her. "What?"

"She's about three and a half months pregnant," Scully clarifies.

This was not precisely the bad news I was expecting. But it definitely qualifies as bad. Mulder looks at me, I look at him, and we both stare at our feet.

"I wasn't one hundred percent sure it was her," I say mournfully. "She looks different now."

"What happened?"

"I met a young woman named Bethany in a bar," I reply. "After the one night, I never saw her again."

"And that was three and a half months ago," Mulder finishes as the doors re-open and we get off. I maintain my cool. Of course it was three and a half months ago, Mulder, or you wouldn't have me on a list of suspects for paternity.

"So what happened here?" I ask as we walk down the carpeted corridor.

"We got a phone call," Scully says. We reach an apartment, and she pushes open the door. "When we got here, we found that."

She points to the hallway, where I can see a pair of leather-booted feet and not much else. I walk in carefully, and take a good look at the body. It's Alex Krycek. Half of his head is blown off, and that's not the only thing. I look down and grimace. Oh, God. You just don't fuck with Johnny Valmont.

"Please tell me that was post-mortem," I growl.

"We don't know, sir," Scully says. "An autopsy will have to be performed. On the phone, she said the gun went off. She left a note on the table."

"Have you opened it?"

"It's evidence," Mulder says. "And we weren't prepared. We thought she'd be here. I've never heard Johnny sound like that. She was sobbing, hysterical, crying over and over, 'It just went off and I was scared and he was going to hurt-- oh, God, please just get here--' and I don't know if she was telling the truth or playing a game."

"If it was an accident-- or self-defense-- her only real crimes are the post-mortem and leaving the scene of a crime. As far as we can tell, she didn't fake her death. She was kidnapped," Scully says.

"The post-mortem wound-- if it is-- doesn't speak well for her," I point out.

"No, it doesn't," Mulder agrees. "But I honestly think this was self-defense. And a woman in that state of mind could be impulsive..."

"Why are you two defending her?" I ask. They both look down. Scully almost blushes, and I suddenly don't want to know. I just hope it wasn't a threesome gone awry. "Never mind. DCPD will get the gory details."

"Sir--" Mulder says nervously.

"I'm sure you'll be fine. You didn't do anything illegal."

He's almost forty years old, and he acts like a sixteen-year-old 'borrowing' Dad's car. Of course, Johnny Valmont is a devastating woman. There's still the matter of the biological plague to be discussed, not to mention the pregnancy. But facts are facts. A man is dead, never mind he deserved to die, he's been mutilated, and the perpetrator fled the scene. We can't hide this, and I don't want to.

"We'll have to put out a warrant," I say.

"Of course," Scully says slowly. "Sir-- what about the plague? And the baby?"

"There's time to discuss it later," I say. "Right now, there's a dead man on the carpet. And do either of you have the faintest clue about how to reach Johnny?"

They shake their heads in stereo. Of course not. Johnny probably took off because these two didn't suit any of her plans. Or maybe she just didn't want to go to jail. Either way, I don't think I'll see her until she wants to see me.

I stare down at Krycek's body.

"Damn," I murmur as the wail of sirens fills the air. "Poor Krycek."

"Poor Krycek?" Scully asks.

"Well, it's not the way I'd want to go," I say. Mulder nods tersely, and we all stand there like idiots until the sirens become policemen and paramedics in our midst.

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

"Counting flowers on the wall, that don't bother me at all," the radio booms. "Playing solitaire 'til dawn, with a deck of fifty-one--"

I join in with the song, using my rustier, less pleasant voice. I actually can sing, but when I'm this scared and this alone and this bloody, I need to belt out the music, not please the ear.

"Smoking cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo... now don't tell me, I've nothin' to do!" I belt out over the Statler brothers. Even if everything else has gone straight to hell in a handbasket, at least I have my CDs back.

Gotta drive, gotta get the hell outta Dodge, where am I going and why didn't I stop? Why didn't I tell everyone the truth? I didn't do anything wrong. My fingers burn from where they were touching the gun barrel. I got really lucky; I'm just singed and scared. Until I get caught, anyhow.

_Just give it up, Johnny._ Last words of my Alex. It turns out he was my Alex to the end, wasn't he? Rest in peace, you filthy bastard.

I'm driving and I don't have a clue where to go. Basically I hopped on the freeway and I'm looking for a way south. I don't know why. I can't figure out for the life of me what I'm going to do. I have to focus. I've killed people before. I was going to kill Krycek, I really was.

What the hell is wrong with me? The gun went off, and then he was dead and I was so furious and afraid that I just lost control and BAM! I shot him square in the nuts. Fortunately, he really was dead, but it doesn't look good for me.

The CD player starts skipping beats again and I give it a good whack with my fist. Fuck me, I'm in trouble. I'm on the road, a pregnant woman in her own car, bloody clothes in the backseat, he told me to give it up, but I'm not going out like that. Not me.

"Get down, get down, get down get down--"

I have to change this CD. I have to change everything and fast. I got the hell out of Dodge, but that's not going to do me any good if I get busted in Fort Wayne, now, is it? What would you do? A man died on top of me; I lost my temper and shot him after the fact. I'm already wanted for faking my own death-- well, I will be-- and I have to go save the world. This is no time for the proper authorities.

Change. That's a thought, I realize as the shuffle button brings up the soundtrack to The Wedding Singer. I don't defend my musical tastes, I just challenge everyone else's. Johnny Valmont is definitely persona non grata around nowadays. So why don't I stop being Johnny Valmont? It makes sense. False identities are cheap and relatively gratifying.

Shit. I gotta pee. I look out the windshield, pissed because all of the goddamn bugs that have crusted up my ride-- stupid little bastards, don't they ever SEE the car? I try not to think of home, and the fact my grinning mug's going to be all over the six-o-clock news. Because if I'm successful-- and I will be-- it's not going to be my face. I'll be someone else.

Fortunately, there's a rest stop coming up in three miles. I think I'll get a coke and a candy bar while I'm at it. I'm way tired, and the traffic stinks. It's giving me a headache; it never did before. It must be the baby.

Oh, to hell with that. Sure, the baby has done some extremely bizarre things to my body, but I'm exhausted, freaked, and on the run. That's where the headache comes from. I growl at the traffic as I pull off the highway into the rest stop. They better have Caramello, dammit. If I have to have Snickers or Twix, violence will occur.

I have my big epiphany during the world's longest piss. The length of the piss **is**  baby related, no doubt about it. But I'm listening to the heavily-accented yokels talk in the other stalls when I figure out where to start.

"Joylynn! Do you got any toilet paper in thar?"

"Jest a minute, Lucille!"

Don't ask me why they inspire me, they just do. They're so delightfully anonymous without sacrificing an iota of color. I'm grinning as I wash my hands. I look at myself in the mirror and cock my head speculatively.

"Does your momma look like a Joylynn to you, honey?" I ask in a stilted accent. "I think she looks just like a Joylynn St. Cloud."

Joylynn St. Cloud has to use a pay phone to get in touch with her old friend Johnny Valmont's friends, but that's all of the good. They're antsy about cell phones anyway. But I promise them cash (even if I was freaked about killing scummy old Alex Krycek, I knew enough to get all the cash out of my house and make a few quick withdrawals before I left town). They promise Joylynn a new driver's license et cetera when I get to Memphis.

October in New Orleans can be beautiful, I realize. I remember a few good years there, fourteen and fifteen in Metairie and Kenner, sneaking downtown with Charlotte's car whenever I could. The Quarter is big, skanky, steamy, and easy to hide in. I know where to go.

"I'm coming, I'm coming home to you--" Heather Nova sings. "I'm alive, I'm a mess--"

New Orleans is where I'm regrouping, simple as that. It makes sense to me. Doesn't it make sense to you? I'm going to get me a room at the Ponchartrain Hotel, eat fatty, spicy, delicious food, gorge at the Hyatt Chocoholic Bar, and figure out a way to save the world and my own ass at the same time.

"Nothing heals me like you do, nothing heals me like you do--"

I hit the button on the CD player again. To the end of the world and beyond the backwoods of America, I'm going on a trip and I feel like a heroine. God save me. But I think the heroine trip is just because I've done a lot of suffering and from what I hear, that's par for the course. The heroic bleed well.

Johnny Rivers pours out and I start laughing, because hey, sometimes things are fitting--

"Long distance information, give me Memphis Tennessee--"

No, I'm not going to explain the entire plan to you. Two big reasons why-- one, it spoils all the fun, and two, well, I don't have the entire plan. I have rudiments, but my official plan right now is to change my name, go to New Orleans, and then take down the Consortium's latest plot. Easy as buying Beanie Babies, right?

* * *

 

**Scully:**

Finally, after a day of questions, we end up at Mulder's apartment. He orders Chinese; I sprawl on a chair and yawn pitifully.

"We looked awful," he sighs as he settles down on the couch. "We looked like her clueless sluts."

"We deserved to look terrible," I reply. "Could we know any less about what's really going on? We have nothing except her word to go on, and that's not very reliable, is it?"

I kick off my shoes and start massaging my feet. It's then I realize Mulder has the CD player on. Sneaky of him, but I'm too tired to think lascivious thoughts, even if it is Dusty Springfield and I'm a sucker for "Son of a Preacher Man".

"Think they'll catch her?" I ask, just as Dusty carols, "Taking time to make time, telling me that he's all mine, learning from each other's knowing, looking to see how much we've grown and the only boy who could ever reach me--"

Was the son of a State Department operative who betrayed his government and the world. Good God damn, if every son of a conspirator man looked this fine downtrodden, betrayal would get fashionable.

"No," Mulder replies to my long-forgotten question. "I don't want them to catch Johnny, either. She may or may not have killed Alex Krycek. Good for her. If anyone's going to stop the Consortium and Harvey-Millholland, it's going to be her. Not to mention--"

Oh, yes, the baby. Nobody wants to say it aloud, but if Johnny goes to prison, there's going to be a moderate amount of trouble about it.

"Are we going to just pretend she's not out there, then?" I ask. "Are we going to give her our blessing?"

"What, are you insane?" Mulder asks. "I don't think Johnny's any sort of hero. But she's a liar, a whore, and a doublecrossing snake. And I think it takes a thief to catch a thief. Or a Consortium. She likes being alive. She likes things as they are, and so she'll work her ass off to defend the status quo."

He looks tired, and I try to remember what he looked like, five, six, how many years ago?-- back when we were young and the world wasn't out to destroy us. Back when life was an adventure and I'd scored the most interesting and sexy partner at the FBI. I notice, with almost horror, a little patch of silver hair at his temple.

"Are you worried what's going to happen to the baby?" I ask, getting off the chair and walking over to him. I sit down next to the couch, quiet.

"A little bit. But as Johnny says, the baby's paternity really isn't important at this point. It's just-- life, you know? Ever since Johnny showed up, my entire world has been shot to hell, and us--"

I look up at him. "We've changed. And not for the better," I say. "Mulder, do you think we really love each other?"

His eyes stare into mine. "I want to believe that," he says. "But I don't know. Everything we've done-- ever since Johnny, it's been so fucking wrong--"

"Before Johnny, Mulder. What's wrong between us started before her, even if she brought things to the breaking point. We've been in love for so damn long and we never talked about it. We've gone through a long-term love affair without even acknowledging it. Then Johnny shows up, and we cheat on each other like there was no tomorrow."

"You can't cheat on someone if you're not dating," Mulder says. He sounds like he's quoting someone. I have a feeling it's Johnny. She's the reigning queen of the pithy comment.

"Bullshit, Mulder," I reply. "So why else did we get so upset about it? She knew what she was doing, even if we wouldn't admit it. She's done it twice and she'll do it again. Don't you think she'll be back? Somehow, I just don't see Johnny Valmont trading in secrets, manicures, and the occasional crime spree for diapers and a minivan."

He laughs, but it's a miserable laugh. "So what are we going to do?"

"We are going to decide what we want. We're going to try to make a clean start."

He looks at me. "Us? Now?"

"I know how silly it sounds. But I'm going to take some very good advice I learned from a ludicrous nymphomaniac. If you love someone, tell him and be specific. And I love you, dammit. Despite the many good reasons I shouldn't."

"Which means?" Mulder asks, looking down at me with incredulity in his eyes.

Before I can say anything else, the Chinese arrives. Isn't that always the way? Mulder nervously gets up and pays for the food. I think the delivery boy got a huge tip, but it's not important, because Mulder is back and the tension hasn't broken.

"Mulder-- sometimes you drive me out of my mind. I could list a million little things, but one big thing is that you waited seven or eight months to tell me you knew I was infertile--"

"Scu--"

"I'm not finished!" I snap. "Sometimes I wish I could just leave. But I can't. You call me across the void in dreams I can barely remember. You run off to the ends of the earth after me. You've faced your deepest demons just to save me. You'd die for me. And that's something you don't just walk away from."

He stares at me, tears sparkling in his eyes. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Neither do I, really. This sort of honesty doesn't come easily to anyone and especially not us.

"I love you. I hate you. I can't live without you, but I don't know if I can be your lover," I whisper. "But I really, really would like to try. Honestly, this time, not just as some outburst of unresolved sexual tension."

The Chinese smells wonderful; it's turning my stomach. Mulder's mouth has dropped open.

"Damn," he mutters. "So you don't know? That's just like you. Sometimes I've never known any person on earth who I've actually wanted to kill more. You with that snide, cool little attitude, you're always 'fine.' You could be spewing guts, but you're fine. You keep me back, but you'll let strangers-- or Johnny motherfucking Valmont-- into your confidences. Sometimes I wonder if we see the same world, Scully."

I listen, transfixed. Well, what do you know? Johnny was right about being honest. I'll have to buy her a maternity gift. Mulder's face is contorted, but at least we're not lying to each other.

"But underneath it all, there's you. God, what kind of idiot would I be if I didn't know what I had? You're stubborn and pigheaded. But you're brilliant, you're fascinating, and you are what I need. You and I are necessary to each other. Even when you hate me and I hate you. Yeah, I love you. If I lost you, I'd be dead. But--"

But? Oh, God. I try to shrink.

"But?" I ask.

"It all comes down to this-- there's nothing sure about the world we live in. All we can promise to each other is what we have. I don't know if I can handle the uncertainty."

I can breathe again.

"To quote the nympho again, I think we'll just have to live it out," I say. "Fairytale endings all stink anyway."

Mulder looks at me and a smile breaks across his face. "When did the nympho tell you this?"

"I think when we were eating Mexican food after 'Like Water for Chocolate,'" I say. "Forget her. We won't live, Mulder. But who does?"

He recognizes Blade Runner, and he reaches down simply to touch my cheek. Then he smiles, which is a rare treat.

"I think I can accept that," he says. "Come on, our food is getting cold."

So we eat, in the light of a new truce. But we won't live happily ever after. There's still a plague, our jobs, the threat of a worldwide alien invasion, and Johnny Valmont swelling like a cheap balloon. Love doesn't solve anything at all, when I think about it, but it makes the world a nicer place to handle on long afternoons.

* * *

 

**Mulder:**

"Oh, God, harder, oh, oh-- just a little more-- oh, right like that! Yes! Oh, God, yes!"

Few things are as simultaneously dangerous and rewarding than going down on the woman you love in the morning. Especially when the Gold Standard of lovers hovers over you unspoken. But this is not about Johnny Valmont, dammit. This is about Scully, and lavishing the proper attention on her.

"Oh, God! Oh God! Mulder!" she shrieks.

Okay, there. I feel a thousand percent better, especially when I slide up and my gorgeous, flushed lover rolls over and kisses me into oblivion.

"We're going to be late to work, and that lobbying firm-- you know, Parker-Leeds-- is supposed to meet up with us today," I whisper into her ear.

"Why do we keep bothering with those people? Their class-action lawsuit, this St. Cloud vs. Harvey-Millholland could be very useful-- if we had two or three years as opposed to two or three months. That's a grim deadline, and no lawyer is going to beat these people," Scully says.

"I know. Got any relatives in the IRA?"

"That's NOT funny."

No, it's not, and despite the fact I'm something resembling happy these days, we don't have much time. This could be the world's last Christmas before God knows what. It weighs on my mind heavily, and Scully's too. Last night we watched 12 Monkeys and afterwards made love until we couldn't stop shaking. Johnny Valmont's been gone two months. Sometimes I think she's dead. Other times I think she really did run off to South America. Very rarely do I actually believe she's out there, trying to stop the plague.

"Why are you so damn-- never mind," Scully says in the shower, scrubbing her hair.

"What?"

"Nothing," she says tersely. "Never mind. This legal stuff just feels futile."

"You're right. Let's get mobs and bombs."

She gives me a dark look. "You know I don't mean that."

I let it go, and we finish our shower. Scully is off like a shot to her bedroom, and I'm left to trail along behind her. And I don't know where she picked it up, but Scully sings in the mornings. I love her, but she can't sing.

"I don't believe I went too far... I said I was willing... she said she knew what my book did not-- I thought she knew what's up--"

"What did she know?"

"I don't know, it's a song."

"I was just asking."

It shuts her up. That's a good thing, especially as then she starts dressing. It's one of my favorite parts of the day, watching pale Scullyskin against rough, dark fabric... welcome to paradise.

And, as most days in paradise go after the beautiful sunrise, we have a fight in DC morning traffic.

"I don't need to tell my mother, Mulder! Mom is a blabbermouth. She'll tell Tara and Tara will tell Bill and that's not a Christmas conversation I want to have!"

"I can handle your brother, even if he is a dick."

Wrong answer. "My brother is not a dick. Just because you hate him does not give you the right to complain. What, are you afraid of him?"

I may be afraid of him, but that's something I'm never going to tell.

"Afraid of Bill? No. It's just that-- well, he reminds me of El Chupacabra."

Oh, not only was that a wrong answer, that was the Daily Double of stupid answers.

"He reminds you of the Mexican goat-sucker? Fine. You want to tell my mother, I'm all right with that. This affair isn't a secret, after all- especially not after you cashed in on the office pool."

"I did NOT."

"That's right-- you had Danny do it for you," she says pithily. "Don't bother explaining. Just appreciate how much fun you'll have explaining to my brother what a Chupacabra is. You'll wish the Beijing Butterfly got you."

And on that cheerful note, we get to work, AKA the neutral zone. No personal fighting. We can still argue-- and do-- about EBE's, flukemen, and conspiracies, but not about razors or tampons. It's much, much better this way.

Parker and Leeds, by the way, are the reason why I think all lawyers should be exposed to the black oil. They talk in circles about Ms. Joylynn St. Cloud and her crusade against Harvey-Millholland. From what I can tell, they're not officially involved in this case. It's actually a bunch of law students doing the work, but they smell blood and they want money. I can't tell if they want us to testify, contribute funds, or arrest someone. Scully takes turns looking smug and long-suffering and finally rescues me with--

"Do you have any scientific documentation about any specific hazards that the H-M corporation has created in St. John the Baptist and East Baton Rouge parishes?"

One of them shifts uncomfortably. "Well, it takes a while, but we have an aide, a Ms. Carolyn Dalton, working very closely with several teams of LSU and Tulane scientists. She has some very preliminary theories about what's going on-- mostly stemming around genetic engineering. I'm not a scientist, but I think she's got solid work behind that."

Scully and I exchange a look. It's definitely time to kill all the lawyers. "Could we see?" she asks.

"Of course!" the other replies, pulling out a folder. Scully snatches it, and it's up to me to dispatch them in short order. I plead a staff meeting and they go back to the primordial ooze that spawned them.

"This Dalton woman knows her business," Scully says after lunch. "She's listed at least five places that could very well be manufacturing the plague that Harvey-Millholland is breeding into their animals. If we only had a little more time, this could break legitimately. Of course, we don't have time." She pushes the folder away and rubs her temples. "Mulder, I think we should take what we have here and run with it. Tell the press, whatever."

"That might frighten someone into doing something rash," I reply.

"I know. But we have to take a risk somewhere," Scully says. "Let's call Skinner and tell him to make this a larger Bureau matter. Tell him this is a genetically engineered plague and let's get fifty agents on the corporation. Let's scare Johnny Valmont out of whatever rat-hole she's gone down and remind her she's got responsibilities, too!"

"Johnny Valmont isn't going to save the world," I snap. "I don't know if anyone can, really."

She shakes her head. "So what, then? We're going to give up and hope that we're lucky? Hope the next plague just passes us by? Mulder, I refuse to give up. I refuse to just let this happen," she says, blue eyes shining. "I won't stand by silently."

I know what Scully means. I even agree with Scully, but there's something in me that just wants to crumble up and stop fighting, because there's no point. Scully and I have never been able to stop these people, and without the help of an insider, even if that insider is Johnny, we're sunk. We don't have a starting point.

"I won't, either," I say, with more confidence than I have. "We should go and talk to Skinner about this first. And then, why don't we leave early and file the paperwork for that trip to Dallas for the beginning of next week?"

She nods. "Mulder, we'll beat this."

"I hope so," I reply softly.

The rest of the day passes in the same mood, at least until we get out of the J. Edgar Hoover parking garage.

"Do you really want to spend Christmas with my family?" Scully asks as we chug through Beltway rush hour. "I mean--"

"Christmas, Chanukah, New Year's, it doesn't matter," I reply. "I just want to enjoy the end of December with you."

She smiles, but it's a humorless smile. "Mulder, you want to enjoy every second with me."

"Just in case."

"You really think we're going to die, don't you?" she asks. "It's really very disturbing how easily you'll give up."

"I haven't given up!" I protest angrily.

"Haven't you?" she asks scornfully, as we pull into the parking lot of her apartment building. "Believe what you'd like, Mulder."

We walk up to her apartment without speaking, and Scully promptly walks into her kitchen and makes the jars in the fridge rattle with her unspoken disappointment in me. Dinner, which is leftover Chinese, is eaten in uncomfortable silence, except for the hum of Christmas songs on the radio. We stare at each other in intervals, and I finally decide that I should just go home and let this simmer down for a bit.

"Scully, I--"

"I was going to tell you," she interrupts, "My godson has a choir concert tonight. Ellen invited me out of the blue. I'd really like to go, but I know that it's not your thing. So if you just want to go home, that's all right."

That wasn't particularly subtle, but I get her point.

"Yeah," I murmur, walking over and kissing her on the cheek. "You go ahead. My mold is probably having a party and I'd like to put a lid on it."

She nods, but keeps looking down. Burl Ives is crooning in tongues behind us, and my heart is in my throat. I can't help feeling discouraged. We've achieved next to nothing and I feel so helpless. But I can't give up. I won't give up. For Scully's sake above all else, but also because I could never live with myself if I let the bastards win.

"Scully?"

"Yeah?"

"As long as you're with me, I can't give up. I won't," I promise.

She nods tersely. "I've always been there, Mulder," she says, her delicate features suffused with unearthly calm. "Go home. I'll see you tomorrow."

I walk over to the door to leave, and the song on the radio changes.

"Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright--" and it definitely is, but the calmness is just a facade, and the jaws of hell are waiting underneath. Instead of thinking about peace on earth, I think about silence. Scully puts her hand in mine, and I hold it tight, but I don't feel any better.

If we don't find Johnny Valmont or someone who can stop this very soon, prayers are going to be all we have left. And that doesn't fill me with confidence in any way, shape, or form, because my faith in Johnny or in God is dangerously lacking.

* * *

 

**Johnny:**

O ye of little faith. You all really think I'm selfish enough to just ditch the whole quest? Well, okay, I'm selfish enough, but I'm not quite that stupid.

Remind me never to go domestic and fall in love. It makes people so damned tedious. Of course, I wish I had time to make love after watching Brad Pitt run around on screen. Or have a genuine Christmas, but hey. Life is going on, and I'm not a lazy, despondent ass, unlike some people I could name. God, Mulder and Scully in love isn't quite what I thought. They're happy, in their own severely demented way. They're-- they're just like Tolstoy said. Every happy family is alike. Don't blame me, I tried to stop it. But it appears they are meant to be, and now I'm too busy with other matters anyway.

Bourbon Street doesn't stop for the holidays, and neither do I. I suppose you guessed I filed that class action lawsuit. I guess you're wondering why. It's about as sexy as watching paint dry. But I got to New Orleans at a wonderful conjunction. God bless the idealistic environmentalists at the Tulane Law Clinics. Not only do those kids care about the poor and the downtrodden, but boy, they're well-hung.

All right, before you all go looking for sex and explosions elsewhere, I'll explain. By the time I made it to Memphis, I was all over my Alex-killin' guilt. Driving will do that to you. He needed killing. Even God knew that, which is why the gun went in his face and not mine. So I pick up the fake identity, go me, but I'm back to brooding about the Beijing Butterfly flu. When I finally get into New Orleans, I'm completely clueless about what to do.

That's when I noticed local politics and found out some nice, idealistic law students at Tulane were all about fighting big, bad corporations who were ruining the environment. So the class-action lawsuit of Joylynn St. Cloud vs. Harvey-Millholland got started. Thank God they had a plant in St. John the Baptist Parish, the capital of poor folks being exploited by corporate evil. Joylynn immediately rented a shack, got a posh job at Popeye's, and bought herself a very large soapbox.

Multiple identities, like multiple orgasms, are a good thing. Poor, pregnant, working-class Joylynn bitches about toxic poisons four days a week out in the sticks. Then Carolyn Dalton telecommutes to work with this lobbying group. The little free time left is spent with Johnny Valmont, digging up unofficial but extremely reliable information about what's going on. And that's that. Basically, I'm hoping to take out the Harvey-Millholland threat from different avenues. Divide and conquer.

But I'm not sure which avenue will deliver the kill shot, if any of them can. I've worked hard, and I've gotten far. With any luck, I'll have a positive ID on a lead that brings everything together. From what I can tell, this flu is Beavis's baby. Oh, you haven't forgotten Beavis, have you? English Jake's ex-number-one flunky? My ex-boss? All around middle management whore? That's the guy. Who else would layer a worldwide plague under three different dummy corporations and still manage to exploit every tax loophole in six nations? There's hope for the world yet.

The kid, meanwhile, whacks me in the bladder. Maintaining a badass lifestyle is well-nigh impossible these days. Even the toughest bad guys get cute when I waddle in. Running down the street with a gun and a sexy holler just isn't cool anymore. Attractive maternity clothes are few and far between, and Joylynn can't wear them anyway. Oh, and now that I'm right about seven months pregnant, all the Tulane boys are freaked and I can't even get amusement that way any more.

So here I am, Christmas Eve 1999, and I'm alone and working. This is crap. But it's at least productive, so I go back to rummaging through an online database that really shouldn't exist. That's when I hear the knock at my door, a strange occurrence because no one knows I live here. I hide my work, pull out a bat, and waddle to the door. Then I open up.

"Merry Christmas, Ms. Valmont," Old Smokey says. "And congratulations."

"Yeah, it was always my goal in life to be fat and alone on Christmas," I say sardonically. "What the hell do you want?"

"I want to congratulate you for dismantling the Beijing Butterfly program."

"A bit premature, aren't you?" I ask. "Of course, that is a problem for all men from time to time--"

He smiles at me. It's a patronizing smile. I don't like it. "I see you're as delightfully witty as ever. May I come in?"

"I suppose," I say. "It's an awfully long haul from DC to New Orleans, Smokey. What's your ulterior motive?"

"Are you always this suspicious, Ms. Valmont?"

"Sure. You've had a motive ever since I caught your attention. What, is it the baby or something?"

"Why should I care about that?"

I shrug. "Well, Mulder being your son and all, she'd be your granddaughter."

He starts choking, but it's with laughter. "My God. You've really missed your calling, Ms. Valmont."

I sneer. "Yeah. I was always meant to be a Broadway star. What's so funny?" I ask.

"Mulder can't be the father. He's sterile."

I stare at him. "Say what, old man?"

"We had the opportunity to run a few tests back in Idaho in 1993. The unfortunate side effects left him sterile."

Now, I don't really believe this, but if it is true-- well. Talk about poetic justice in a nutshell. I look at him with consternation. The old bastard is up to something. I can't trust him, but I never could.

"You let them sterilize your boy?"

"We all have to make sacrifices to the project, Johnny," he says enigmatically. "But I really didn't come here to discuss your upcoming maternity. I'm here to make you an offer."

One I can't refuse, I bet. "All right, then. What sort of offer?"

"I want you to come work for me. Eventually, I want you to replace me in the organization."

Now I'm the one choking. Oh, come on. I wasn't born yesterday. I know better than to take this at face value. "Excuse me?"

"Work for me, Valmont. You're perfect for the job."

"But I'm a woman," I say. "Besides, you hate me, I hate you, and what would qualify me to be the most evil person on earth except for Jerry Springer?"

He nods slowly. "I admit, we've had our differences," he says. "But I'm getting old, Johnny. There's no one else out there. You have flair, and a dedication to the work. You'd be willing to focus on the Project. I've seen too many has-beens trying to succeed. You could do it."

Damn right I could. I shudder. This is fucking unreal. It's like Cinderella's fairy godmother sprinkling happy-ending sparkles over my life. All of the sudden, I'm the number-one draft pick, the heir apparent, the once and future queen? Things must be in serious chaos in Old Smokey's house. Something's rotten in the state of Denmark. But of course I'm tempted. The world doesn't just fall into your lap without some temptation getting attached.

"Would it upset you to know I don't trust you even a little?" I ask.

"On the contrary," he replies, "I'm delighted to know that you've got a healthy distrust of your enemies. It's necessary. But the truth is, I need you, and necessity makes strange bedfellows."

"If you're sincere, you'll give me time to think it over-- and to check you out."

He nods again. "You have until the new millennium," he says generously. "I'll expect an answer by then."

He rises and nods to me politely.

"Where can I contact you?" I ask.

"If you're as good as I expect, I don't have to tell you."

And then he leaves, an aura of smoke and lies lingering behind him. I settle heavily onto the plush couch and groan. I have a week, seven days, to decide where my life will go next.

Apparently I've got them on the run. There's no other reason to extend this offer to me. I'm close to something Smokey doesn't want out there. I know I don't need to join the Consortium just to save the world. So it's all about what I want, no matter what their little plans are.

I want the world. I always have. But do I really, really want it like this? My goals are a bit different than English Jake's or Old Smokey's or even Alex Krycek's. There are ethical questions to be debated, pros and cons to be weighed-- aw, hell. I want it. I've got a great chance now. Of course I'm going to say yes.

See, want, take, have. Very simple process, isn't it? I can have anything I want; I just have to wait it out and sooner or later, everyone comes around to my way of thinking. Or they die, but still, I run a tight ship without a lot of disagreement.

Weighing the options, I waddle upstairs into bed. I turn on the television and drink lots of water and eat lots of Christmas cookies while flipping aimlessly through channels, looking for something interesting or comforting. But all I've got is some ambition and a kid. Merry Christmas, yeah, sure, whatever.

I finally end up watching Home Shopping Network, petting my stomach, and thinking ahead. The baby alternately kicks and punches, and I just let it happen. And why not? My decisions are made, my course is set, and the future looks good. I deserve a night of heavenly, drowsy peace. Of course, someone else doesn't think so. I hold my hand against my stomach and try to relax us.

"Two more months," I say softly. "Two more months."

* * *

 

**C.G.B. Spender:**

I spend the last night of the millennium alone in a hotel room overlooking the streets of New Orleans. They swarm with ant-like people, so stupidly glad to be alive in such exciting times. Bathed in the glow of a lamp and the television, I take a gulp of fine brandy. I hope for a little warmth in the lushly air-conditioned room. A man like myself spends so many holidays alone, possessing knowledge that leaves life dust and ashes in my fist.

Still, this is the happiest New Year I've had in at least a decade. Alone, yes, but hopeful for the first time in I don't remember how long. I've watched so many pretenders parade across the lines-- liars and idiots and cowards all, none of them worthy of the prize. I think of them-- Harry Lancaster, Alex Krycek, my own son, and even Fox Mulder-- second-rate men, all of them, full of passionate intensity. But that would fit with these times, wouldn't it?

The ageless man on the television screen, Dick Clark, promises a rocking tomorrow full of beautiful, illusory dreams. I made that man. I've made every man, woman, and child around me. Each person in the crowds owes their peace of mind, their way of life, to the work I have done and the plans I have made. But I'm growing old, and time seems to be chasing me with cruel intentions. None of my associates is getting any younger, either.

We were men of a great age, a different age. There was to be sacrifice, duty, foresight. There are so few today who can grasp what is vital to be a part of our great and vital enterprise. For who can foresee the future? Damn few of us; and so we have to make the future for ourselves and the world at large.

Who could have seen our future, nonetheless? I've never claimed to be a fortune-teller, just a fortune-maker. But my lack of sight, our lack of sight, has resulted in abductions, politics, and internecine warfare as great and harrowing as the wars fought on Normandy beaches or in Vietnamese jungles. But there is no blood on my hands, so it becomes so distant from the reality of tonight--

Another gulp of brandy. I had dreamed, once, that Fox Mulder would succeed me. He was the most promising of our sons; intense, intelligent, and vitally invested in the right things. But it was all shadow and no substance. Mulder doesn't care about the future, or larger issues. He's selfish. He wants his precious basement office and his lover, that damnable creature. As I consider further, Dana Scully has more promise than Mulder at this point. She could go far in the organization, if things were just a little different.

But whatifs have no place with me. I have a successor, an heir, a future chosen. It will all be handled as we wanted and decided fifty years ago.

Lancaster will be furious about the flu, but I'm damned sick of Lancaster and his generation, kowtowing idiots with no hint of originality. Armageddon doesn't need a test run. Richard Kensington was six times the man Lancaster is. My successor is six times the man Lancaster is, and she's not even trying. Hell, if I hadn't stopped his project, she would have, and I won't risk exposure over such pettiness.

I've been waiting for Johnny Valmont almost a week now. She only has twenty more minutes... but I know she'll come. I have faith in her, what she is, and what she wants to become. Her ambition is my ally, even if she doesn't think so.

"Evening, Smokey," a low, dark voice growls right as I'm about to fall asleep. "You've been waiting."

I look up, and admire Johnny Valmont. She stands before me swollen and radiant, the unlikely receptacle of fifty years of hopes and the future of all our careful plans. Her belly almost obscures the gun she has aimed right at me, and I notice the dress is emerald velvet and probably custom-made. I smile. No Valmont woman-- and I've known three generations counting Johnny-- arrives at an event underdressed. Her hair is even back to its original dark tint.

"Have you considered my offer, Ms. Valmont?" I ask.

"You bet," she says. "I considered it very seriously."

"And what have you decided?"

The noise from the streets below is getting unbearable; we must be close. "Happy New Millennium, old man," she says.

"What's your decision, Johnny?"

Her eyes never leave mine, but the gun sinks down and disappears, and one hand smoothes over her stomach gently. The cheers are getting deafening.

"Yes," she says. The crowd goes wild. It's midnight. The first seconds of a new era. "Who could resist?"

This is the reason I've chosen Johnny. Despite her obvious flaws, despite the fact she's a woman, and despite the fact she and I despise each other. Who could resist the world? We need her, the obvious intelligence and ambition, the grasping, reaching desire for the overarching plan. She won't be satisfied until she has the world. And so, I'll give it to her, and she'll understand what it really means.

New Year's on St. Charles rages below us. The street explodes in fireworks and screams, and Johnny walks to the window and opens the curtains. Her silhouette is outlined in the garish outpouring of light.

"Congratulations, Johnny," I say from behind her. "You made the right decision."

She turns, and the play of light and dark across her face is beautiful and striking.

"I know I did," she replies. "Did you?"

The words-- or possibly the air conditioner-- send a chill across my spine. She stands there a moment or two longer, and then closes the curtains and returns to where I'm sitting.

"What's your name?" she asks. Now she looks young again, a child among giants and legends. But I know better. There's nothing truly young about Johnny Valmont.

"It's not important."

"Give me at least one," she insists. "One you like."

"Jack Colquitt," I reply. "So are we going to begin tonight?"

"I'd rather wait until tomorrow," Johnny says. "I want to go out there. See the sights. One last night being good."

"Being good? You?"

She laughs. "Well, I was a heroine for a brief, shining moment. I didn't like it. It involved ethics, suffering, and a lot of hard work for low pay. But I'm going to bid a fond farewell to the entire hero gig, and then I'm coming back here and we're going to subdue the entire world."

I nod. "Tomorrow, then," I say, toasting her with the dregs of my brandy. She laughs, and walks toward the door.

"You have no idea what's begun here," she says, opening the door and pausing. "Happy New Year."

The door slams behind her, and I'm left alone with my thoughts and the new millennium stretching endlessly before me.

 


End file.
